


The Recipe

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Choking, Explicit Sexual Content, Guts n stuff, M/M, Murderteeth, Threeway Dicking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff is comfortable giving Michael and Ryan their space, doesn’t mind their shared late nights, doesn’t ask questions about the scratches and stains, the hushed conversations in hallways, the dark smiles that pass between the two—because in the end, his boyfriends come home to him and him alone.</p><p>On a clear autumn day, Geoff laughs off a cop at their door, the man’s questions ridiculous.</p><p>But when Michael and Ryan take a sudden interest in his cooking, when their jokes take a morbid bent, a frightening suspicion seizes Geoff’s consciousness—his nightmares. What will he do if his lovers face him with a grisly ultimatum: eat or be eaten?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whiskey & Wasabi Peas (March 2014)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mood-setting multimedia introduction over on tumblr](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/post/101731836997/the-recipe-chapter-1-of-6-psychoteeth-au)

**Mid-March, 2014. Austin.**

“So, your profile said you’re a journalist?”

Geoff fiddles with the red stirrer in his club soda, his mind everywhere other than here in the bar trying to make small talk with a stranger.

“Yeah,” the guy says. “I work for the Register, downtown--I’m gonna be a sports writer but they don’t let me do too much on that side yet.”

Geoff had been planning on plying the stranger with drinks, and the fact that the man is already taking swallows from his second cocktail enthusiastically is really just icing on the cake. Last time, he’d gotten stuck with a teetotaler which had just really put a damper on the evening.  

Luckily, between the man’s buzz and his penchant for filling any lull in conversation with details about himself ad nauseam, it’s not that hard to keep the conversation going.   
  
“For me sports writing is just a natural, right? Recruited straight out of high school, played college ball, and if I hadn’t torn my ACL you’d better believe I’d go pro. I fucking eat, drink, and sleep football, you know?”

“Don’t I know it,” Geoff says, flat.

The man does look the part of washed up college athlete, all broad shoulders and square jaw. A very all-American boy next door, a Johnny Roommate type, clear skin and neat dark hair. Geoff was genuinely surprised when the man accepted his invitation for drinks because for all intents and purposes, the man looks like the type of guy who would shoulder him off the sidewalk in the street just for the hell of it.

Yet here Geoff is, buying the guy drinks, listening to his shitty stories.

“But yeah for now they have me on the fucking blotter, writing crime briefs most of the time,” the man says, taking another long pull from his cocktail. It’s the first interesting thing the man has said all night--but Geoff is careful to mask his enthusiasm with the same casual boredom he’s maintained for most of the date.

“I mean it sounds like it would be great right? Like, at least interesting,” the man says. Geoff nods. “And for a while it was ok--mostly sitting around with binders at police stations taking notes on funny shit like guys in bar fights or the drunk tank report. But now with these people going missing, I get stuck doing research on all of these boring missing assholes. But like, we all know they’re dead by now. Come on.”

“Sounds tedious,” Geoff says, pretending to concentrate on the small dish of wasabi peas on the high boy table in front of them. “Do you ever get to see any of the good stuff?”

“What, like the reports on autopsies?” the guy says. Geoff shrugs, neither confirming nor denying that this is what he meant. He selects a wasabi pea, puts it in his mouth, crunches. The spice hits hot and pleasant through his nose, an ephemeral flash of flavor followed by the flat, slightly sour taste of the dried pea.

“Nah,” the guy says. “The PD reps keep all of that as far away from reporters as they can. One of our senior guys, though, swears he has a source saying that they’re not even finding bodies--just, like, parts, you know?”

“Parts?” Geoff repeats back to him, selecting another wasabi pea, crunching it.

“Half a hand, a leg,” the man says. His second cocktail is down to the ice. “Weird remains. It’s creepy. Nothing verified, mind you. Personally I think he’s full of shit, an old jerk trying to act like a hot shot in the news room. Plus, if the cops had any sort of leads, they’d be riding us hard to help get details out--height, build, sketches. They’re always tight lipped until they actually need something from us. Do you ever read the Register, David? Maybe you’ve seen my byline.”

“Sometimes,” Geoff says, “but I’m usually just looking at the letters and editorials. The crime stuff just depresses me,” he lies.

“Yeah man, I hear that.”

“Do you want another?” Geoff asks, nodding at the empty drink.

“Sure, if you don’t mind,” the man says with a wide smile. “You sure you don’t want something harder than club soda?”

“I guess one whiskey won’t hurt,” Geoff says, finally. He needs something to take the edge off, to keep him from strangling the guy right here in the restaurant. Geoff strides to the bar, orders their drinks--another well cocktail for the man, a top shelf rye bourbon for himself--and then he closes the tab. Taking a sip before he leaves the bar, he can’t help but enjoy the way the spirit’s raw spice sears his palate.

\---

It only takes about fifteen more minutes before the man’s third drink is gone. Geoff nurses his whiskey slowly, letting short sips evaporate on his tongue. The guy is still talking about himself--recounting, now, the fateful day he tore his ACL on the field, including every painstaking detail of the game.

“It was second and thirteen, right? And this guy just had it out for me--” he says. Geoff doesn’t know how much more he can actually take of this conversation, and the man is thoroughly inebriated.

It’s time to go.

Geoff reaches a hand under the highboy, not bothering with subtlety at this point. He squeezes the other man’s knee then strokes a few inches higher. The man keeps his cool but the touch silences him at least for a moment as he grins at Geoff.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Geoff says, doing his best attempt at bedroom eyes. The man snorts out a small laugh.

“You’re forward, David,” the man says, smiling, “and I like it. Does this mean I get to see the rest of those tattoos?”

Geoff gives him a shrug, a deep and sonorous chuckle, his hand still on the man’s leg.

“Please tell me reporters like you don’t have to work early on Saturday mornings?” Geoff says.

“Not unless some sort of big news breaks overnight,” the man says. “Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that the cops don’t find a body tonight, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Geoff says, unable to conceal a wolfish grin. “I’ll keep ‘em crossed.”

\---

Geoff convinces the man to leave his car in the restaurant parking lot, insisting rightly that he’s in no shape to drive and that Geoff will return him to his car in the morning.

“Where are we going?” the man asks as Geoff turns his sedan onto the highway, leaning onto the gas.

“East--towards Elgin,” Geoff says. “I live in the country. Not much longer.”

And it doesn’t take long, now that the traffic has died and the sun is down. Only five minutes and the suburbs fall away to flat rural properties, thick thatches of trees. The highway is a long, dark stretch. It’s the type of drive Geoff would normally revel in: quiet, straight, and hypnotic. But his passenger adds an unwelcome commentary to the journey.

The man yammers on and on, even after Geoff turns on music to deter him. He has moved onto some monologue about the evolution of the Ford Mustang, utterly undeterred that Geoff isn’t responding to the soliloquy.

Soon Geoff guides them off the highway, slowing to a creep and turning down an unmarked road, no mailbox, blacktop giving way immediately to a path of gravel that makes a satisfying crunch under the sedan’s tires. The gravel road snakes left and right, headlights illuminating their way through the trees. There are deep, dry ruts where tires have worn a groove coming and going from the property.

“Wow, it must be super quiet out here,” the man says, peering forward. “I’ve never been to this side of town. It must be nice to get away from it all after spending all day in the city.”

“You have no idea,” Geoff says, low.

Finally the road sweeps a sharp left and the trees open up to a clearing. The headlights seem suddenly dimmer, reaching feebly out to splash against a structure. A house, dark and empty, but neat looking, not abandoned.

Geoff cuts the headlights as he noses the car towards the front of the house and the moon washes the clearing a faint silver. Wordless, Geoff exits the car, shutting the door behind him and enjoying the first moment of silence all night. The dome light inside stays illuminated and as Geoff steps back from the vehicle, crosses in front of the car, he watches the man: his face wan under the weak light, his eyes dark and wide.

Geoff turns away from the vehicle then, forcing himself to look out into the wooded land, forcing his pupils to dilate, to flare wide as they adjust to the darkness.

He knows they’re out there. Is he facing them right now?

The night is quiet. Of course they’ll make no sound.

And in a moment, behind him, the man is crashing out of the car, his sounds exploding from the vehicle and bouncing off the house, the trees, the ground in strange angles, highlighting the open space. Geoff waits for the man’s feet to crunch through gravel, but the man just stands there at the car.

“God, look at the stars,” he says after a moment. Geoff turns to look and the man is leaning against the car, his head thrown back, his neck long and exaggerated in the light as he stares open-mouthed into the sky, adam’s apple taut under smooth and stretched tan skin. “It’s amazing out here,” he says, looking then to Geoff. Geoff strides to close the distance between them.

“It _is_ amazing,” Geoff says, and he presses against the man, sizing him up, one hand on his chest, the other steadying himself on the car window behind him. The man smells like syrup and vodka as he breathes a shocked breath into the warm air. Geoff curls his hand into a fist, pulling the man’s t-shirt taught, pressing his face into the taller man’s neck. The man arches off the car, pressing himself back into Geoff.

“Don’t you want to go inside?” he moans into the air above Geoff.

“No,” Geoff says into the other man’s jaw, meeting his lips then--he wants to stay here in the open where they can see him--and the man’s short stubble rough against his own chin as he licks into the stranger’s mouth. Geoff releases the man’s shirt then, hands roaming freely over the man’s torso as he guides them through an urgent kiss, and the other man simply lets himself be handled, breathes harder as Geoff’s touch gets rougher, the smell of him growing, filling Geoff up.

They pause to fill their lungs again, the stranger’s breathing already ragged--and, relentless, encouraged by the two sets of eyes he knows are watching him, egged on by the knowledge that the stranger is falling apart right here out in the open, Geoff kisses the man again deeply and gives him another visceral push into the side of the car, hip meeting hip, chest to chest, and the man moans into the kiss. Geoff knows the rough handling already has the man hard, can feel the suggestion of the man’s erection against his own thigh, and Geoff pins the man to the car with the weight of his body while he frees his hands, one fluttering up to rest lightly on the man’s throat and the other on his cock.

The feeling of having complete control over the man is exhilarating, and Geoff pauses to enjoy the moment, his own heart pumping even and slow, his hand possessively around the man’s neck, stroking the outline of the man’s erection, knowing that the man could overpower him if he wanted to--but that he wouldn’t, that he would stand here, pinned against the car all night if Geoff wanted him to--that he’d let himself be fucked against the car in the woods, if that’s what Geoff decided, and he’d love it.

A stick snaps--behind Geoff and to the right, 35, maybe 40 yards.

It’s a clear, bright sound.

The man doesn’t hear it--or if he does, he doesn’t react.

But for Geoff, everything begins to change, his heart pumping faster now, flush with arousal.

He kisses the man again, wet and hungry, releasing his weight, no longer pressing against him. Geoff releases his throat, giving his cock a last firm stroke, and brings his hands up to either side of the man’s head. He rakes through the man’s short hair, down his neck, feeling his powerful shoulders, his impressive yoke, reveling in the muscles in the man’s upper arms.

There’s another snap, 20 yards off now.

It only takes a second for Geoff to put the man on the ground.

He twists each hand into the man’s shirt sleeves and pulls down and to the right with all his strength, at the same time kicking the man laterally in the ankle from right to left. The man’s ankles crash together and he loses his footing, careening over Geoff’s foot, falling hard, reaching out and finding no purchase, unable to cushion the blow as he lands hard in the gravel, his spine and skull hitting the solid earth with a full-sounding thump--and Geoff follows him down with all of his weight, landing on top and using the larger man to cushion his fall, his hip slamming into the man’s belly.

The stranger is still, doesn’t even call out--and there’s no time for Geoff to figure out whether the fall has knocked the man unconscious of if he’s just gone still with the shock of finding himself on his back in the dark--because he knows he needs the man silent and unconscious before they get here, knows they’re already on their way, can’t take any chance that the man is still awake when they arrive because Geoff doesn’t want their vicious help in subduing the stranger. No blood spilled out here--Geoff has no desire for the sound and smell of it tonight. So his knees find purchase in the gravel and Geoff rears up, landing efficient jabs at each temple, ensuring that the man is out cold, that he stays out.

“You never let us take the good ones down,” a voice says through a smile in the darkness in front of him.

He doesn’t know how Michael does it: ghosting in silently, somehow walking on gravel without even making a sound. The young man, dressed in black from head to toe, steps closer and offers out a gloved hand. Geoff takes it, pushes up, and with a yank, Michael helps him to his feet--and pulls him immediately into a kiss, gentle familiar, Michael’s hand snaking down to palm Geoff’s erection through his jeans as he kisses appreciatively into the older man’s mouth. Geoff has a moment of deja vu: it’s the same kiss and groping Michael has greeted him with so many times in the morning as Geoff rubs sleep out of his eyes, begins the tedious act of making coffee, and the familiar affection makes him feel unhinged out here in the stand of trees, in the clearing, in the dark.  

“That was incredible to watch,” Michael says after a moment, breaking the kiss and buzzing with energy. “What a fucking textbook takedown.”

Adrenaline is still crashing over Geoff in waves as he hears the second man, approaching from the other side of the clearing.

“When will you deliver us a live one, Geoff?” Ryan says from a few yards off, smiling wide in the dark, a floating cheshire cat grin in the distance.

“You know I don’t do blood,” Geoff says. Michael is hanging off of him, hands all over him, manic with delight and ignoring Ryan.

“So you risk a broken hand?” Ryan says, closer now, scolding.

“I’m fine,” Geoff says. His knuckles are bleeding.

“You’re more than fine,” Michael says, squeezing Geoff’s hip. “You’re amazing. I could watch you do that all day.”

Ryan joins them on the side of the car, standing over the man on the ground. He assesses his prey, unconscious and breathing rough.

“You’ve really outdone yourself Geoff,” he finally says low, and Geoff’s heart continues to pound away like some separate entity in his chest, equal parts frightened of Ryan--of what the man is capable of and what he craves--and pleased to be praised by the man.

“He’s strong,” Geoff says, not sure what else to say, gone dumb with horror and arousal, his tongue thick.

“Not as strong as you, Geoff,” Michael purrs, continuing his handsy ministrations, and Ryan slips a hand around Geoff’s hip. Michael reluctantly disengages from Geoff and Ryan has his turn then, a gloved hand at the small of Geoff’s back, a slow and determined kiss. It’s the steadying force Geoff needed to be able to breathe, the strong current he needed to overcome the frightening feeling of being rudderless and he lets the man confidently take his mouth, Ryan in his element now, biting slowly on his bottom lip until Geoff knows he’s drawing blood. He moans into Ryan’s mouth and the man sucks his lip for a moment before finally disengaging, planting a kiss on Geoff’s jaw, a kiss into his ear.

“Well done,” he whispers brusquely, and as Geoff comes back to himself, as his heart slows to a reasonable pace, Geoff can taste his own metallic blood.

“Too bad you were on the other side, Ryan,” Michael pipes up. “Geoff put on quite a show.”

Geoff chuckles low at Michael, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“I saw enough,” Ryan says, smiling at Michael. “You had complete control from the moment you pulled up.”

“This guy is ridiculous,” Michael says, gesturing to the man splayed on the ground. “I half thought you were going to fuck him on the hood of your car, Geoff.”

“And he would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for us meddling kids,” Ryan says, his own energy beginning to grow and meet Michael’s fevered intensity. “Maybe next time you’ll control yourself a little longer, Michael,” Ryan says, chiding him lightly.

Michael is already back at Geoff’s side, his hands on Geoff’s hips, on his flanks, sliding his gloves over every convenient plane on the other man’s body.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Michael says. “It’s hard to see our bait at work and not jump the gun. Or, uh, blade, in this case.”

Ryan is only half listening but he gives the younger man an appreciative chuckle. He’s kneeled and placed something on the ground next to the man--a small box that opens like a briefcase. There’s a metallic ping and Geoff catches sight of a sliver of the moon, reflected in a blade.

“I’m going back to the house,” Geoff says, his voice still not catching up to his brain correctly.

“Aw, Geoff,” Michael says, disappointed.

“Thought maybe we’d get you to stay this time,” Ryan says, looking over his shoulder with a smile. “I never will understand why you won’t stay for the fun parts.”

“I’m a hunter,” Geoff says. “Not a field butcher. You boys enjoy.”

 

 


	2. Pasta Primavera (July 2013)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some [visual multimedia fun](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/post/102345315292/the-recipe-chapter-2-of-6-psychoteeth-au) (no gore) and some [auditory pleasure](http://8tracks.com/mightbeanasshole/touch-me-i-m-going-to-scream).  
> Drinks are on me, friends.

> _Blanching is a method by which one plunges a fruit or vegetable into boiling water for a short amount of time before transferring it to an ice bath, which abruptly stops the item from continuing to cook. Blanching is a valuable method in the field, allowing you to sterilize the surfaces of fruits and vegetables, to remove dirt and organisms, and even to reduce bitterness._
> 
> _Though most often used before preserving an item (in canning or freezing), blanching is an invaluable field technique--a moment where you “shock” your ingredients before beginning the slower grilling or broiling process._
> 
> _\---The Flavor Game: Notes from a Field Butcher_

**Early July, 2013. Austin.**

Pasta primavera is a dish that Geoff never makes the same way twice. It all depends on what’s in season, what’s on sale, what looks delicious at the market he swings through on the particular day he’s cooking.

It’s a scorching July afternoon as he enters HEB, blasted by merciful air conditioning, packing a hand basket with summer squash at the height of their season, small ripe tomatoes, green beans, asparagus, a zucchini, broccoli, garlic. After a moment, he puts the green beans back, deciding the flavor profile just doesn’t make sense with what else he’s selected, picking out green peas instead--and, after a moment, a carton of button mushrooms.

It’s often more fun to work without a recipe for Geoff--and always more rewarding when the flavors come together at the end just as he predicted.

\---

He and Michael are working in the kitchen when Ryan strides in.

Geoff’s shirt is rolled up to his elbows as he trims broccoli florets, and he pauses to wipe a hand down the black apron tied at his waist, to check in with Michael’s progress in shelling peas, to take a sip of bourbon on the rocks before continuing his work. They often fall into a nice rhythm like this after work, Michael acting as sous chef while Geoff works on his buzz and prepares a meal.

“Michael,” Ryan says the moment he’s through the door. “Look what got dropped off from the PO box after you left.”

Michael wipes his hands on a dish towel before joining Ryan.

“Aw shit yeah,” Michael says.

Geoff turns and the two of them have a large hard-bound book spread on the counter.

“What’s that?”  
  
“Oh, you’ll like this Geoff. It’s a cookbook my uncle sent me,” Ryan says, looking up and smiling. Michael is enthralled, turning the large glossy pages to reveal images of food, tastefully plated and nicely photographed.

“Jesus, I’ve never seen you two so excited about recipes,” Geoff says, frowning. “What’s the catch?”

“It’s all exotic meat stuff,” Michael explains, not looking up. “Like big game, or rabbit, or wild boar, or whatever. Ryan and I have been talking about it.”

“Huh,” Geoff says. “That could be interesting. We used to end up eating some weird shit in Alabama. Is there somewhere to get stuff like that in Austin?”

“We got a guy for that,” Ryan says, smiling, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

“Yeah, Geoff, we always got a guy,” Michael says. “Come on.”

Geoff makes his way to the other side of the counter and the two men make room for him as he takes his turn flipping through the book.

“Notes from a Field Butcher,” Geoff says, reading the subtitle of the book from the top of one of the pages. “The fuck is a field butcher.”

“Someone who brings down a game animal and then prepares it right there,” Michael says.

“It’s instructional, on top of the recipes,” Ryan says. “With options for preparing things out in the field or for making it at home with store-bought ingredients.”

“I guess that could come in handy in a Bear Grylls type situation,” Geoff says, shrugging. Michael and Ryan meet each other’s eyes, twin smiles spreading across their faces.

“Jesus, please don’t tell me you two are going to start hunting?” Geoff says, frowning.

“Who’s to say we haven’t already?” Ryan says, smiling.

“Gross, I’m getting flashbacks to my childhood,” Geoff says. And then: “Please tell me you two have little matching camouflage outfits.”

“Yeah something like that,” Ryan says.

“You know if you guys want to go fuck in the woods, you don’t have to pretend to be hunting,” Geoff says, returning to his cutting board, resuming his quick work with a paring knife. “I promise I won’t mind. I’ll even wash the grass stains out of Michael’s jeans.”

“And if we actually go hunting?” Ryan asks.

“As long as you don’t start chewing tobacco and you keep it on Michael and Ryan time, I don’t anticipate any issues,” Geoff says.

“But if we bring something home for dinner, you won’t say no--right Geoff?” Michael says.

“Look--no creepy mounted heads, no weird fur or whatever. Taxidermy is off limits. You guys read your book and do your field butcher thing and if you bring something very clean and very meat-looking home for me to cook then I’ll cook it and I won’t ask questions.”

“It’s a deal,” Ryan says quickly, and Michael laughs hard. “We’ll even wrap it in butcher paper if it’ll make you feel better.”

Michael’s laughing harder and Geoff’s missed the joke, he guesses. He sighs.

\---

The flavors in the dish come together in layers, both mellow and bright.

In a moment of culinary daring, Geoff had toasted pine nuts and added them to the dish--an inspired choice, he realizes, as he enjoys his first bites of pasta primavera, savoring the textural interest that the pine nuts had added to the dish along with firm noodles, tender segments of vegetables, and fleshy mushrooms. The bold and pungent flavor of parmigiano-reggiano unites it all in a light sauce with soft, wilted basil leaves.

He’s pleased by the meal, sure of its quality and convinced from his first bite that the time he and Michael put into preparing each ingredient properly was not at all wasted--chopping, scrubbing, and blanching the vegetables, coring the tomatoes, hand-grating the cheese.

\---

“The only way it could’ve possibly been any better,” Ryan says, folding his napkin neatly, “is if there had been some meat involved in there somewhere.”

“Jesus, Ryan,” Geoff says, frowning, “Maybe you can spend an hour blanching vegetables and chopping shit next time.”

“I thought it was perfect, Geoff,” Michael chimes in. “Sometimes it’s nice to go meatless.”

One corner of Ryan’s mouth is pulled down in a thoughtful expression.

“Really? I mean, just a crumble of sausage would’ve done it,” he says. “You know. Give it some oomph.”

“If by oomph you mean ‘make an entire delicate dish suddenly taste like sausage,’ then yeah Ryan, I guess you’re right,” Geoff says--not really annoyed now, just messing around.

“Not all of us have such sophisticated palates,” Ryan says, shrugging. “I just like dinner to have--you know--some punch behind it. Some guts. Something to stick to your ribs.”

“Yeah, well, I think there are some dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the freezer if the pasta primavera we slaved over isn’t up to your exacting meat standards,” Geoff says.

“Really?”  
  
“No, asshole. Go get more pasta if you’re starving to death,” Geoff says, rolling his eyes. Ungrateful bastard.

“Don’t listen to him, Geoff,” Michael says, visibly enjoying watching the two of them spar. “You don’t have to cater to the lowest common denominator here. I thought it was delicious.”

“Thank you Michael,” Geoff says loudly, shooting daggers at Ryan.

\---

Even in the shower, Geoff can hear Michael moaning from the bedroom.

It’s a familiar game that Ryan likes to play with them: pitting them against one another. Testing and teasing them.

Over the streaming water, Geoff can’t make out words. It’s more just a disturbance in the air, the suggestion of words, Michael’s mid-toning moans and pleas punctuated by the bass rumbling that indicates Ryan speaking--no doubt saying something filthy, knowing that Geoff can hear them, wondering if Geoff can make out the words.

It’s a good game and he doesn’t mind. It’s already making him hard.

Geoff can barely imagine what Ryan would be like in a monogamous relationship. Caring? Committed? Certainly--but it seems like the man feeds off the dynamic of having two lovers far too much to ever settle for one. There’s a manic energy there sometimes, almost buzzing off of Ryan, when Geoff walks in on Michael and Ryan together, or when Ryan catches the two of them alone.

Geoff feels it too, of course. Three lovers together mean an entirely different dynamic, an extra set of hands, another mouth--and Ryan and Michael work together so beautifully, whether they’re washing dishes after dinner or making love to him.

There are days in the office when Geoff’s caught Ryan eyeing Ray or Jack or Gavin hungrily, too, and times when Geoff has wondered if he and Michael are even enough for the man.

So it had caught him off guard when Ryan began to demand nights alone with Michael. It was never rude, but the request seemed to materialize out of thin air six months ago--Ryan asking Geoff if he’d mind the two of them going for an overnight stay alone. As far as Geoff was concerned, there weren’t hard and fast rules for their relationship, and he’d been happy to oblige the request--smiling warmly, in fact, at the thought of having their house to himself for 24 hours.

It had become a monthly thing, after that, and Ryan and Michael never offered an explanation of what they’d done on those nights alone other than very vague mentions of locations. Geoff assumed they usually found a hotel somewhere and had marathon sex, especially since Michael usually came back looking exhausted and hollow-eyed but deeply satisfied.

They’d climb into bed with Geoff the night afterwards and lavish attention on him. Any perceived hurts or lingering tension seemed to melt away while they were apart, and the three of them came together happier than before. So all in all it was a good system, and Geoff was happy to place his trust in Ryan.

It had been well placed so far, after all. Ryan is theatrical sometimes in setting up sex, and he’s damned good at it. When the three of them had begun to fall into bed together for the first time, Geoff had felt like he’d never be able to keep up with the two younger men--like it was inevitable that he’d eventually let them down with how vanilla his tastes were and the fact that he wasn’t really into day-long sport fucking (which seemed to be Michael’s specialty).

But he hadn’t anticipated how masterfully Ryan would orchestrate every element of their shared sex life, producing novelty when things fell into a pattern, setting a relentless pace when all three of them had the energy, and backing off when one needed time to breathe. Ryan also seemed to be able to entice Geoff into trying--and liking--almost anything. Geoff had come to find himself fucking and being fucked in so many different ways that he didn’t even question it anymore.

And Geoff was a natural born homemaker, he made no secret of that. It surprised no one that what had at first just been sex had evolved into a living situation and a real relationship, the kind of thing that other people acknowledged. Against all odds.

Michael’s moans are coming in clearer, louder, and Geoff’s mind stops wandering. He begins to stroke himself, enjoying the heat of the water, picturing in his mind what awaits him in the other room.

After a moment of active listening, Michael’s sounds go higher and Geoff can’t hear him anymore. He doesn’t hear Ryan either. He switches off the water, steps out of the shower, and towels off. Without the sound of the shower drowning him out, though, Geoff can hear Michael again. His moans have melted into a sustained whine. Geoff stands there listening for a moment, enjoying the build up--the theatricality--not even wondering what Ryan has planned for them because he knows he’ll enjoy it.

“Are you gonna call him, Michael,” he hears Ryan say softly in the other room. “Or are you willing to wait longer?”

Michael coughs out a moan. And then:

“Geoff,” he says, breathless. “Geoff. Geoff. Hurry. Please.”

Geoff stays silent, waiting for a clue to the game.

“Tsk,” Ryan scolds, louder now. “I don’t think he can hear that, Michael.”

“Geoff!” he chokes out.

“Old guy like that might be losing his hearing,” Ryan says, getting meaner, and Geoff can hear the smile on the man’s face.

“Geoff, please,” Michael moans. “Geoff… I need…”

“A glass of water? An aspirin? What do you need, Michael?” Ryan snarls.

“Geoff, I need you,” Michael says, beginning to whine. “Please get in here, please. Geoff, you gotta fuck me, you gotta hurry.”

At that, Geoff steps through the open doorway, rounding the corner to find the two men.

“Ah, the magic words,” Ryan says, a sneer on his face.

Michael is naked and belly-up on the bed, his face red and damp, his erection slick and ruddy, and Ryan sits casually between his knees, one hand on Michael’s hip and the other disappearing between their bodies, finger-fucking the younger man. He wonders how long they’ve been at it.

“Jesus Geoff,” Michael says, still panting, moaning, but less desperate now that Geoff is actually in the room. “Took you goddamn long enough--ah!” and he bites his lower lip. Ryan’s other hand has gone to work, grazing Michael’s erection with his fingertips. Michael’s cock bobs and he arches into the air.

“Don’t be rude,” Ryan says. “Unless you want to stay like this.”

“No, fuck, Ryan, fuck,” Michael says, whining and squirming on the man’s fingers. “I’m sorry. _Please_ , Geoff. I want you to fuck me. I can’t fucking take it.”

The scene is a lovely gift, and Geoff repays Ryan for it by slowly assessing the scene. He tosses the towel lightly to a chair and takes a moment to appreciate every detail, stroking himself lightly as he memorizes the display before him. Ryan breathes a deep sigh of contentment as Geoff handles himself at the edge of the bed. He knows how much Geoff gets off on seeing Michael strung out and needy, and he’s apparently spent the last half hour teasing Michael to his breaking point just so he can savor this moment of having both Michael and Geoff under his spell. Geoff is more than happy to give Ryan this victory as he ghosts down the length of his own cock gently and smiles.

It only infuriates Michael, of course, because Geoff is touching himself rather than him.

“Come on, Geoff, Jesus you two,” Michael says, panting.

“Sorry,” Geoff says, “I can’t quite hear what you’re asking for? Old man like me might need a hearing aid.”   
“Goddamn it, someone better fucking fuck me!” Michael says, squeezing his eyes shut.

They both laugh appreciatively at that, deep chuckles in unison.

Geoff eases his weight onto the bed behind Ryan, both of the men squeezing in between Michael’s knees now, and he pushes Ryan’s head gently to one side so that he can suck kisses down the man’s throat, snaking to his back, then down his spine. At the same time, he strokes Ryan’s hips, his ass, before grinding his cock into the soft skin in front of him. Ryan hums, allows Geoff to appreciate him for a moment before pushing backwards.

“I think you’d better take care of him, Geoff,” Ryan says, jutting his chin towards Michael.

“Oh, you fucking _think_?” Michael says before he throws his head back with a moan.

“Easy,” Geoff says, disengaging from Ryan, making his way to the head of the bed. He strokes his fingers through Michael’s hair and the man looks up at him with wet eyes. Geoff kisses him deeply, Michael’s mouth opening easily--the man almost gulping at him with need in between moans, biting light on Geoff’s lips, frantically trying to increase the pace of the kiss. Geoff is gentle, slow, and even the speed of the kiss is pissing Michael off as he groans, frustrated in Geoff’s mouth.

“Geoff please,” he says soft.

Geoff feels a weight shifting and then Ryan is there at the head of the bed, kissing Michael, pressing a small bottle into Geoff’s hand over the other man’s belly--silently moving the action forward, as usual. Geoff takes his position at the foot of the bed, and as the two continue a long kiss, Geoff slicks his erection and gently repositions Michael’s knees so that his hips are in the air. Michael moans into Ryan’s mouth at the movement, the promise--finally--of being fucked.

Ryan has teased him open, of course, and Michael is warm and pliant, Geoff pushing in easily and slowly, still cautious and tender despite the sweet temptation to give Michael exactly what he’s been begging for. He sinks in, deliberate and unhurried, until he’s as deep as he can go, hips meeting the back of Michael’s thighs, watching Ryan break the long kiss for shorter exchanges, bites, sucking and licking his way down Michael’s neck to his collarbones, shoulders, chest.

Michael rocks down onto Geoff impatiently.

“Damn it, Geoff,” he chokes. Ryan is pressing him down, kneeling beside Michael’s hips now.

“Eyes on me,” Ryan says to Michael, taking up the bottle from the bed and slicking his own erection. Michael turns his head to look desperately up at the man as he begins to touch himself.

Geoff finally starts to move now, letting Michael’s bucking set a quick rhythm. It’s not long before the man is babbling to both of them: “Geoff, it’s so good,” and “Ryan, Jesus Christ,” and “Yes, harder, yes,” all blending together into a torrent of obscenity. Michael knows it turns them on and always uses it to his advantage. Not that he could even turn it off if he wanted to--mouthy little shit.

“Come on Geoff,” he says, moaning but not taking his eyes off Ryan. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Ryan chuckles at Michael’s teasing, stroking himself harder now. Geoff grunts low, almost a growl, and grabs Michael firmly by the hips, digging his knees into the bed to fuck harder into Michael.

His taunts are punctuated by moans and whimpers now but Michael keeps going.

“I think he’s ready for a walker now, Ryan,” Michael says, not even smiling. “Maybe some orthopedic sho--oh _Christ_ Geoff, yes, that’s more like it, Jesus Christ.”

Ryan leans over Michael to kiss Geoff then--all sweetness gone, hard and hungry, barely able to keep up with the momentum of Geoff as he thrusts into Michael--and it’s the beginning of the end, both men groaning into each other’s mouths, Michael whining louder at the sight of them before Ryan breaks off again.

Geoff’s getting vocal now too, the exertion and arousal too much for him to stay silent, and he groans as he rocks his full length in and out of Michael. The sheer force and and pace and pleasure of it, the exquisite view of Ryan’s sneer as he jerks himself off and Michael’s face reddening deeper as he moans, is too much--and Geoff doesn’t try to stave off orgasm--there’s no reason for him to--and he chokes out a quick warning before burying himself in the final incoherent strokes of orgasm. Michael whines at the feeling of even more fullness and Geoff leans into Ryan who kisses him sweeter, wetter this time as Geoff pulls out and repositions himself.

“You gonna fuck me now, Ryan?” Michael says, breathless.

It’s more challenge than invitation. Geoff watches something electric travel between them: Ryan raising a single eyebrow and Michael jutting out his chin, defiant.

There’s a silent communication, a beat, and then Ryan is taking his place once again between Michael’s knees. Geoff, spent, lays parallel to the younger man now, stroking his belly, kissing his neck.

Ryan is already crashing towards orgasm when he starts to fuck Michael, and Michael has been so close for so long that Geoff knows all he needs is the right combination of words from either one of them and he’ll be coming coming streams across his own chest. Geoff begins to stroke Michael sweetly and the oversensitivity makes Michael clench around Ryan. The other man groans appreciatively as he rocks deep into Michael--who isn’t even making words any more, finally being stroked in a steady rhythm.

Michael comes before Ryan with a deep and clear “oh my _GOD_ ,” but the other man comes crashing after him as Michael jutters and hitches through his orgasm, panting and whining and making all manner of beautiful facial expressions.

\---

There’s only a moment of shared bliss before Ryan is up on his feet.

He’s always organized, always working away while Michael and Geoff lounge in states of undress and mental disarray. The unofficial king of aftercare.

Geoff slings an arm across Michael’s belly as they wait for Ryan to return--and he’s quickly back, pressing a cool, damp washcloth into Michael’s hand, tossing a hand towel to Geoff, finding the bottle of lube in the sheets and replacing it in a drawer, cracking a bottle of water and taking a long pull from it before handing it to Michael. He finds Michael’s boxers, discarded on the floor, and puts them within the man’s reach before falling into bed on the other side of him.

“Goddamn, Ryan,” Geoff says after a moment, still face down in his pillow. “I forgive all the shit you said about my pasta. And any misgivings I had about hunting.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan chuckles.

“Totally dude,” Geoff says. Michael chuckles too and Geoff knows he sounds like he’s half asleep already, muffled by the pillow. “If you come home and do _that_ , I really don’t give a fuck what you two do. Put deer heads on every goddamn wall of the house.”

“I think we’ll go Saturday, then,” Ryan says.

“Yeah?” Michael pipes up.

“Unless we have plans already?”

Geoff shakes his head.

“Saturday is fine,” Geoff says, a list of ideas already in his mind of what he could do with the downtime, visions of movie marathons alone and undisturbed reading. “Go ahead.”

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Michael says.

“Mmm,” Ryan hums, stroking a hand through Michael’s hair.

\---

They leave long before dawn on Saturday. Geoff doesn’t even get out of bed to say goodbye, and he listens to them packing up, laughing, buzzing with energy, keys jingling on their way out the door. He feels a warm happiness that the two of them are pleased. And then he falls back into a deep sleep.

\---

They return early on Sunday.

Geoff is already up. He won’t admit it to himself, but he’d missed them on Saturday and risen early on the off chance that they’d be home for breakfast.

At sunrise he’d started the meal, setting the burr grinder whirring, processing fragrant and oily coffee beans for a dark French press pot. He’d unwrapped a slab of thick-cut bacon, washing and drying each slice slightly to cut some of the extreme salt and bring out the nuanced flavor of fat and muscle in the small slabs of meat. He’d carefully placed each slice in a row onto the hot pan, enjoying the sizzle of searing fat that cut through the silence of the kitchen.

And halfway through breakfast coming together, there they are: the two of them at the door.

Michael looks as exhausted as usual, but both of them are smiling.

“The hunters return,” Geoff announces. “Victorious?”

“Not this time,” Michael says, walking past Geoff without a touch or a kiss but not looking unfriendly. He smells strange but the overwhelming scent of bacon makes it impossible for Geoff to pinpoint what it is. “I’m getting better though!” Michael says over his shoulder as he strides to the bedroom, backpack still across his shoulders.

“He ok?” Geoff says quietly, catching Ryan’s eye. Every bit of Michael’s exhaustion and avoidance is the mirror opposite in Ryan, who is all smiles and fluid feline energy, practically wrapping himself around Geoff as he stands at the stove.

“He’ll be fine,” Ryan says. “He’s disappointed that we don’t have anything to bring you this morning.”

“That’s why I bought bacon,” Geoff says, smiling, as Ryan kisses down his neck. Ryan’s thick sweater itches at the back of Geoff’s neck. “What’s with the turtleneck? It’s eight thousand fucking degrees outside.”

“I ripped my shirt open in the woods,” Ryan says, still wrapped around Geoff. “And I had the sweater in my car.”

“Jesus Ryan,” Geoff says, pushing him away. “You’re wearing that smelly thing that’s been in the floor of your car for two years?”

“One and the same,” Ryan says, smiling back at Geoff as he turns to face Ryan. “I thought you loved my musk, Geoff.”

“Gross dude. Please go change before breakfast.”

Ryan disappears into the other room. Geoff hears running water in the bathroom faucet, backpacks unzipping. Michael’s voice--a question--and a low rumbling answer from Ryan. Then Michael again, louder, sounding irritated. Usually they come home harmonious and Geoff can’t help but feel a little curious about whatever rift is occurring. But then he hears the sound of the shower starting and the conversation must be over.

Ryan walks through the kitchen bare chested, a laundry basket in his hands.

“Just leave it on the machine,” Geoff says, waving a hand. “I’ll get to it after we eat.”

Ryan shrugs.

“I got it,” he says.

“I really don’t mind,” Geoff says, frowning. “I have some things to throw in there, anyway.”

“Nah,” Ryan says. “I’ll take care of it. Better to get it done.”

\---

Whatever tension was there before is either muffled or gone as the three of them sit down for breakfast. Michael has showered and the weird smell is gone. They both look fresh faced. Geoff places a platter of bacon and toast in the middle of the table before retrieving the pot of coffee, the carafe of heavy cream. He makes a show of pouring out each cup from the French press as Michael and Ryan grab and devour the food he’s set out.

Once Geoff sits, Michael reaches across him for the cream.

“The hell happened to your arm,” Geoff says. There are three deep scratches across Michael’s forearm, looking harsh against the pale skin. Michael tucks the arm into himself immediately, uncuffing the sleeve and pulling it over the marks before pouring cream liberally into his coffee.

“I fell in a bush,” he says, frowning and staring down into his coffee. “Not exactly my proudest moment of hunting so far.”

“Hell, it was your first time out,” Geoff says, suddenly sorry that he asked--especially since Ryan had already confessed that Michael was disappointed with the outing.

“He’s right, Michael,” Ryan says. “I’m sure most people aren’t landing big game and swinging from treetops on their first day out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says, trying to hide a pout with a mouthful of bacon.

“I’m sure it’ll get easier,” Geoff says, not even sure what he’s reassuring Michael about at this point but only knowing that he wants to ease whatever the man is feeling.

“It will,” Ryan says. “And next time I know we won’t come home empty handed.”

 

 


	3. Venison - November 2013, August 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter to celebrate Thanksgiving :)

**November 9, 2013.**

Geoff stares down at the photograph in his hands for what feels like the twelfth time that morning.

“I’m sorry detective,” he says. “I just don’t recognize him.”

The police officer sips black coffee from the mug Geoff had pressed into his hands. Geoff regrets, now, inviting the man into their living room.

The plainclothes cop had showed up unannounced on their doorstep. Geoff had watched him through the kitchen window as he approached, assumed that he must be delivering some sort of religious pamphlet. Why else would a tall white guy in a suit be trampling through the blanket of fall leaves on their front yard early on a Saturday morning?

Geoff answered the door ready to tell the guy that he didn’t want whatever he was selling, but instead he was greeted with a badge, the man introducing himself as Det. Nate Decker, asking if Geoff had a moment to speak to him.

So, caught off guard, Geoff had invited him inside.

“And your roommates? I’d like to ask them too, if you don’t mind. The more eyes we get on this picture, the better,” Decker says.

“They’re not home,” Geoff says. “I’m sorry.”

“When do you expect them back?”

“I don’t know,” Geoff says, truthfully. “Probably not until tomorrow. They’re off on an overnight hunting… thing.”

The quality of the air changes, ever so slightly. The conversation steers in a new direction, millimeters of difference but still perceptible to Geoff.

“They hunt often?” Decker asks, flipping open a pad and examining a page--pretending, maybe, to be uninterested in Geoff’s answer.

“Yeah,” Geoff says. “I guess. Around once a month.”

“They go far out of town to do it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never gone with them before.”

“And they don’t tell you? You’ve never asked?”

“I’m not that interested in hunting.”

“Do you remember the exact dates of their last hunting trip?”

“No,” Geoff lies immediately. He doesn’t know why.

“You got a calendar or something handy you could consult?”

“Why would it be important?”

“Might not be,” Decker says, avoiding the question, flashing a friendly smile. “But you never know what detail could lead to a break or who might’ve seen something.”

The man is lying.

Maybe Geoff’s being paranoid but there’s almost something predatory in the cop’s eyes. Geoff has no idea what he’s said to pique the man’s interest but he feels like a prey animal under that gaze.

“If you want,” Geoff offers, “I can keep the photo and ask them if they know anything when they get back.”

Decker keeps smiling, lopsided, assessing Geoff. Geoff knows that he should continue to shrink under the gaze--but instead, he bristles.

“You do that,” Decker says, digging in his pocket, producing a card. “Call me if they know anything. And if you remember the dates of the last trip they went on--maybe you see something that jogs your memory--you call me, OK Mr. Ramsey?”

Geoff sees the man sweeping the room with his eyes as Geoff guides the detective back to the front door. What the fuck is he looking for? Had Geoff somehow made himself into a suspect?

He watches the detective through a window as he leaves, tracing his path back through the unraked leaves, walking down the block to a nondescript sedan. The man gets in and drives away. So much for canvassing the neighborhood.

Geoff grabs a note off of the fridge--a list of his neighbors’ telephone numbers--and he calls the first one, an older woman, a widow, who lives next door.

“Hey Trudy, sorry to call so early,” Geoff begins. He asks her if the detective had stopped by her house. She may have been the last stop Decker made before him, judging by the man’s path through the yard.

His neighbor says yes, he’d knocked on the door and shown ID but, being alone, she hadn’t let him in. He’d given her the same picture, asked if she recognized the young man, explained that he’d been missing since October. She hadn’t recognized the man in the photo, handed the picture back to the detective and told him as much. He’d given her his card and politely left.

He thanks his neighbor, makes small talk for a moment, asking if she needs anything, if she’d like him to rake her yard, too, when he gets around to raking theirs. She thanks him for the offer, and they quickly say goodbye.

So perhaps the detective hadn’t been lying about canvassing the neighborhood. But it made no sense for him to stop and leave in the middle of the block after speaking to Geoff.

Unless Geoff had told him something important? Jogged a memory, maybe?

It feels like a puzzle. Geoff returns to the living room, picking up the photo Decker left there. The man in the photo is entirely average--about Michael’s age and his build, too. Maybe a little taller. It’s difficult to tell from the photo, which showed the man from the waist up, smiling and holding a red plastic cup.

\---

Geoff has an unusually gifted palate.

It becomes a running joke at work after Lindsay and Michael get into a long argument with Ryan, the two of them insisting that two brands are chips are so similar that they’re actually the same product sorted into two different packages.

Ryan had just smiled slyly and suggested they make Geoff do a blind taste test.

He’d nailed it every time, Lindsay and Michael becoming increasingly raucous over his accuracy. They’d proceeded to pour out a sample of every alcohol they could lay hands on in the office, cheering loud when Geoff correctly identified each one.

They’d moved on to the contents of the office fridge, bringing in little slivers of this and that, placing them in Geoff’s mouth and growing increasingly incredulous as he identified each item, even down to the brand.

His palate had become infamous.

But Geoff has always had unusually sharp senses. He doesn’t think about it often, but it does come up.

He’ll hear something in the office that no one else hears--even though for him it’s clear as day--and they all make fun of him until it’s verified by a party in another studio that Geoff is perfectly correct.

He’ll pinpoint someone’s exact lunch from their breath, smelled second hand on a microphone screen a moment after they’ve used it. He’s able to tell when someone’s on a diet by a change in smell of their sweat.

Geoff takes it for granted, most of the time. His job is to play video games, after all--which rely more on quick reflexes and sight than subtle sensory stimulation. And his eyes aren’t anything special.

But when he’s on high alert, when he’s curious, his senses come alive and he misses nothing.

\---

**August 24, 2013**

The first time they bring home some game from a hunting trip on an August afternoon, Geoff can smell the blood on them before he sees it.

It shouldn’t surprised him. He’d looked at the damn recipe book. There’s nothing about field dressing an animal that’s clean and sterile and naturally the first time they’d get covered in blood--right?

They’d tried to spare him, of course. Ryan and Michael had both changed clothes and scrubbed themselves in a sink somewhere. But they smell like a butcher shop when they walk in the door on that late summer afternoon, reeking of a scent that reminds Geoff of warm pennies and room temperature meat.

Geoff is on the couch when the first wave of it hits him.

“You finally bagged one,” he says flat, Ryan and Michael coming into view.

The two men exchange a dark look.

“Lucky guess?” Ryan volunteers, placing his backpack on the living room floor and producing a large package wrapped in waxed butcher paper.

“No,” Geoff says, his head swimming at the smell, intensified by the package, which he knows must contain some large, grisly cut of meat. “No, I can smell the blood on the two of you.”

Michael crinkles his nose.

“Seriously? We washed up.”

“You need to wash harder. It smells like you bathed in it,” Geoff says.

“That’s actually really impressive, Geoff,” Michael says, giving the man an appraising look, peering back and forth between Ryan and Geoff. But Ryan is just looking at Geoff, ignoring Michael for the moment. There’s a decision about something going on behind those eyes.

“So I’m guessing that doesn’t exactly put you in a cooking mood?” Ryan says finally, gently holding the package of meat to his chest.

Geoff hauls himself off the couch, not wanting to disappoint the two of them.

“No, it’s fine,” Geoff says, forcing a smile, holding out his hands to receive the meat. “I know you two must be excited. What did you shoot?”

The two men become instantly buoyant. The tension in their faces goes slack.

“Just a little buck,” Michael says. “Nothing too impressive.”

“Michael brought him down, looked like a real expert actually,” Ryan says through an enormous smile, and Michael is blushing over the other man’s praise. He passes the package over to Geoff, no longer able to contain his happiness at the grim victory.

“Ryan did all the butcher work,” Michael says. They’re standing at each other’s sides, Ryan towering a bit over Michael, catching the younger man around the waist. “You’d never know it was his first time. You should really see him at work, Geoff. He’s scary good with a knife.”

“Yeah, sounds like a real turn on,” Geoff says, rolling his eyes. “I think I prefer the image of you two huddled at desks instead of elbows-deep in bambi’s guts. No offense.”

“So, what are you going to make?” Ryan asks.

“Depends on what cut you brought home,” Geoff says. He hefts the package, testing its weight in his hands, ignoring the reeking smell of freshly dead meat. It’s easily 5 or 6 pounds.

“Had some trouble getting an exact cut,” Ryan says. “But it’s mostly saddle meat. Should be a good loin cut somewhere in there.”

They follow Geoff to the kitchen, where he places the paper-wrapped package on the counter. He goes to work quickly, tying an apron around his waist, washing his hands thoroughly. Ryan and Michael are at the bar, peering over and watching him work. Geoff selects two knives: a short utility knife he uses for everything, always keeping it sharpened, and a larger breaking knife, tiger-striped with the distinct pattern of Damascus steel. The breaking knife had been a gift from Ryan for his birthday, exotic and high quality. He rarely had a chance to use it. Geoff hefts the large butcher block from a lower cabinet and places the package on top.

The meat, when he unwraps it, is a bit disorienting at first. His initial distaste at the smell of blood is replaced with fascination. It’s a large hunk, and Ryan had done a nice job keeping it neat. It’s not bloody the way Geoff had expected, and if the two men had broken their kill down into smaller filets, he would’ve never known that it didn’t come from the grocery store. It looks like a large roast, almost, dark pink and dry, a thin layer of fat here and there. Ryan had removed any trace of sinew and membrane.

Geoff has never butchered something, but he’s worked with enough cuts of meat that he can easily visualize the delineations between cuts. Twin tenderloins, pink and lean. Scotch filet. The beginnings of a rump roast.

“Take more of the rump next time,” Geoff says, throwing a glance at Ryan. “Maybe I could do a roast.”

“Next time,” Ryan repeats back to him. Michael elbows Ryan in the ribs, grinning at the man. Geoff is smiling too--their enthusiasm is contagious.

With the large Damascus knife, Geoff begins to break down the filets.

“How old is this meat?” he asks, noticing that it’s chilled.

“Brought him down early this morning and we got him on ice as soon as we could,” Michael says.

“Nice,” Geoff says. “You boys are about to have the freshest steaks of your lives.”

He separates the small tenderloins from the other cuts, setting them aside, before carving away two Scotch filets and most of the rump. Those two he wraps and places into large ziplock bags, squeezing out the extra air and tossing them into the fridge.

Ryan and Michael look on, fascinated.

Geoff brings out a heavy frying pan and places it on a burner over medium, throwing in a small drizzle of oil.

“I’m just going to fry a little and taste it,” Geoff says. “So I know what I’m working with.”

It’s been so long since he’s had venison that he honestly can’t remember what flavors he’ll be balancing. He expects something gamey that will need to be heavily spiced to be palatable, but he’s trying to remain optimistic. With the paring knife, he cuts a small slice from one tenderloin.

‘Why don’t you cook everybody a slice?” Ryan suggests with a smile. “We haven’t eaten all day.”

“OK, but I’m not going to dress it up yet,” Geoff warns. “Might be gamey.”

“We’ll live,” Michael says.

Geoff cuts two more conservative slices. The meat is dark pink and lean with the tender give of a high-quality cut of steak. Geoff saws against the grain of the meat ensuring a tender slice to taste.

When the oil in the pan is close to smoking, Geoff gently places the slices onto the hot surface. The kitchen comes to life with the sputtering of cooking, the meat sizzling and steaming, almost immediately releasing the scent of hot, savory food. The scent hits Geoff viscerally and he can almost taste it, his mouth watering slightly in spite of himself. The smell is somewhere between beef and pork, earthy and heady.

He lets the slices sear for a moment before flipping the meat. The cooked side has seared to a nice medium brown. As the other side finishes, Geoff grabs three small plates and sets of silverware for all of them. He presses a fingertip into the cooking slices. They’re about medium rare--ready to be plated--so he spears them and places each one on a plate. When he sets the morsels in front of Michael and Ryan, they look down with something like reverie. He grabs his own plate and joins them on the other side of the bar.

“Let’s enjoy the fruits of your labor,” Geoff says, happy to add a little ceremony since the other two men seem to be enjoying the scene so much. His mouth continues to water and it’s almost embarrassing--he’s close to drooling.

“You first,” Michael says to Geoff.

Geoff carves a small bite with a fork and steak knife, not ready to commit to a large chunk in case it’s unpleasantly gamey.

The two men look on, rapt, as he tastes the first morsel. Geoff expects the musty, wet dog taste he’d become familiar with growing up eating game in Arkansas. The venison is firm and warm with a consistent texture, a tender give. The taste is not at all what he expected--no unpleasant gamey flavor. He searches his mind for parallels as he chews thoughtfully. It reminds him at first of veal, but there’s a wealth of other flavors there too: the earthy taste of porcini mushroom, the distinctly animal taste of beef liver, even the fatty richness of duck confit.

Ryan and Michael are watching his face with intensity, gauging his reaction.

“This is surprisingly good,” Geoff says, immediately slicing a second bite. He’s rewarded with twin smiles--and Ryan begins to laugh. He’s never seen the man so proud of himself.

“You boys did good,” Geoff says, enjoying a second bite, watching Michael and Ryan carve into their own slices.

Geoff brings down Ryan’s recipe book from a shelf above the fridge and opens it on the counter to the index. He’d seen a recipe for tenderloin with rosemary that now sounds appealing, and he turns to it. Pan-seared venison with rosemary and dried cherries. It should be perfect, he thinks, for the delicately flavorful cut. No need for heavy marinades today.

\---

They eat an early Sunday dinner that day, Ryan and Michael refusing to wait very long for the meal, insisting that Geoff get an early start in the kitchen and plying him with red wine and whiskey.

The two men are bubbly and talkative over dinner, and although Geoff expects them to recount every gory detail of their hunting trip, they don’t even bring it up. He’s relieved of course, not quite ready to connect the meat in front of him with the demise of an animal out in the wild.

Over and over again, he catches Ryan watching him eat.

“What’s up?” Geoff finally asks.

“What?” Ryan says, innocently.

“You’re staring at me, dude.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Ryan says. “Is that a problem?”

Geoff rolls his eyes, looks to Michael as if the other man will back him up.

“Is he being a creep or is it just me?” Geoff says.

“Must just be you, Geoff,” Michael says. “We can’t help it that you look so good eating what we brought home.”

“Jesus Christ,” Geoff says. “I’m surrounded by psychopaths in my own house.”

Ryan and Michael dissolve into hard laughter, clinking their wine glasses together in a mock toast.

\---

When their plates and glasses are empty, Geoff stands to clear the table. Ryan and Michael, as if on cue, stand as well and circle the table towards him.

“Leave the dishes,” Ryan says, grasping Geoff firmly by the forearm.

“Let me at least--”

“Leave ‘em,” Michael says, flanking Geoff on the other side, palming Geoff’s crotch through his pants. “Me and Ryan’ll clean up later.”

Geoff frowns at Michael, but Ryan is gently pulling him, guiding him towards the back of the house.

“Come on, Geoff,” Ryan says low. “Don’t make us beg.”

“We want you,” Michael says.

It doesn’t take much. Geoff gives in, allows himself to be pulled to the bedroom where it’s dim and cool.

Their foreplay is usually a game of give and take, but tonight both men seem only to want to worship Geoff. He can barely keep track of who is who in the dying light as four hands undress him gently, stroking every surface, two voices joining in soft praise, two mouths kissing him, tracing shapes on his body.

Eventually Ryan takes the lead, pushing Geoff back on the bed until his head rests in Michael’s lap. Michael smiles down at him in the dim light, and Geoff moans up at him as Ryan begins to lay long stripes with his tongue down Geoff’s thighs, his cock. Michael strokes the planes of his face softly, runs his hands through Geoff’s hair, before ghosting his thumb across Geoff’s lips. As Ryan establishes a rhythm of long, sucking strokes, Michael gently parts Geoff’s lips. Geoff opens his jaws to accept the digit, lapping at the thumb as Michael slowly works it in and out, sighing in the air above him.

Eventually it’s not enough for Michael, and he repositions himself next to Geoff, kissing him deeply. Geoff sucks into the kiss, overwhelmed by the wet contact, by Ryan’s expert handling. Geoff allows Ryan to sweep his legs into the air, the man moving lower, stroking him adeptly--and Geoff groans into his kiss with Michael as Ryan begins rimming him in earnest. Geoff feels like he could almost come from this alone as he digs his fingers into Michael’s shoulder blades and tries not to buck into the air. Michael responds, dragging a hand down his torso to trace Geoff’s erection as Ryan’s tongue is replaced by a confident, slicked finger.

Ryan kisses Geoff’s thighs as he gently presses in and Geoff doesn’t have time to even consider when Ryan grabbed the lube or from where--as he’s distracted by Michael’s slow strokes, by the desire to grind his ass down onto Ryan’s finger.

“Is that good?” Ryan asks gently. Geoff barely has the presence of mind to respond, humming affirmatively into Michael’s mouth and hoping it’s enough of an answer.

Ryan withdraws, and then there are two fingers slowly fucking Geoff, stroking deeper into him.

“Can I fuck you, Geoff?” Ryan asks, his voice rich and bass-heavy in the cool air.

“Please, Ryan,” Geoff says, jockeying for leverage against the fingers. “Yes.”

Michael’s hand disappears from Geoff’s erection as Michael strokes himself, still maintaining a slow, deep kiss. Ryan shifts, his fingers disappearing, and he joins Geoff at the head of the bed, lying propped against pillows next to Geoff. Ryan strokes himself for a moment, watching Michael and Geoff, before gently grasping Geoff’s arm.

“How do you want me?” Geoff asks, disengaging from Michael, already knowing the answer.

“I want you to get on top,” Ryan says.

Geoff begins to turn to face Ryan, but Ryan stops him, shaking his head.

“The other way,” Ryan says. “I want to fuck you while Michael blows you. Is that OK?”

Geoff nods, his head swimming with the thought, and he lets Ryan’s confident hands guide him by the hips until he feels Ryan’s hardness against his opening. It’s not the easiest position, and Geoff always feels worried when he’s not on the receiving end of the same situation that he’ll hurt his lover, but as Geoff lowers himself down onto Ryan’s cock he practically growls into the air, Ryan filling him perfectly and his body yielding to the insistent pressure.

“You ok?” Ryan asks, sounding surprised at the sudden transition. Geoff could probably form words but instead he begins to roll his hips in answer. Ryan grabs him by the waist, then, pulling Geoff so that the man rests more of his weight back on Ryan. He supports both of them, grinding slowly into Geoff.

“Michael,” Ryan says gently, prompting the other man to take his place at Geoff’s cock. Eager to please, Michael begins to lap at Geoff, who groans and clenches at the wet contact.

“I love it when you let us take care of you Geoff,” Ryan says low into Geoff’s neck before biting the sensitive skin there as he slowly bucks into Geoff, his feet finding purchase on the bed as he supports both men’s weight. He rocks gently as Michael sucks down Geoff’s length, and Ryan is careful not to move too fast and risk choking Michael as the three men adjust to the rhythm.  

“Jesus,” Geoff says. “Jesus, Ryan.” He’s barely coherent, every ounce of his being wrapped up in the lower half of his body--and in Ryan’s strong grip, he’s happy to let himself be used, to ride out the pleasure he’s being given.

“I love that you let me feed you and then fuck you, Geoff,” Ryan says, guttural, the vibrations of his voice buzzing into Geoff’s skin. He begins to rock up into Geoff faster, releasing one side of Geoff’s hips to reach around and curl a fist into Michael’s hair. Geoff feels Michael’s pace quicken, spurred on by Ryan’s hand. He’s torn between the stimulation being all too much and wanting it to never end.

“Fuck,” Geoff chokes out. “Y-you two are amazing, fuck.” Michael hums in response, throating Geoff’s dick deeper as Ryan works longer strokes in and out of his ass, pushing into his prostate faster and harder, Michael’s noises becoming wetter, more obscene. Ryan replaces his hand on Geoff’s hip now, and Geoff reaches down to thread his fingers through Michael’s hair. He opens his eyes, looking down at the younger man who is eagerly swallowing around his length. Geoff runs his hands through Michael’s hair appreciatively--

And he’s struck, suddenly, by a matted patch in the man’s hair. There’s something hard that’s dried there, just at the nape of his neck, and Geoff’s fingers tangle in the knot it’s created. He peers down, but it’s too dim to see the spot.

Blood, Geoff realizes, and his world is upended for a moment, his tether on reality becoming much stronger as he remembers that twelve hours ago the two men fucking him had been dismembering a deer with their hands somewhere deep in the forest, the freshly dead animal's hot blood steaming up into the humid Texas air.

As if Ryan notices, as if the man can read Geoff’s mind, Ryan begins to fuck Geoff harder, jostling him, and Michael gags around Geoff’s cock--once, twice--before rearing back and gulping air. Undeterred, Michael begins to jerk Geoff off instead as Ryan slams a brutal rhythm into the other man. Geoff’s sexual zen has been broken, the faster pace feeling abrupt, and he says Ryan’s name once aloud. Ryan is crashing towards orgasm, though, lost in it, and Geoff’s body continues to respond even as his brain retreats, Michael stroking him steadily, Michael stroking himself.

“Jesus,” Michael says, coming suddenly onto Geoff’s hip, looking lovingly up at the man as he continues to stroke out his orgasm, continues to stroke Geoff carefully as the other man bucks into him. Ryan’s fingers are twisting into his hips as he mutters Geoff’s name and strokes and presses into Geoff’s prostate. The sheer physical stimulation is too much--as if the two men have partnered to drag the orgasm out of him--and bright nebulas explode behind his closed eyelids as Geoff jutters into a shaky orgasm, Michael lowering himself quickly to gulp at Geoff’s cock as he rides the orgasm, squeezing around Ryan who continues to thrust into him.

Ryan is the last of them come, grinding four, three, two, one final stroke into Geoff, spilling into him with a deep moan, Geoff feeling the distinct sensation of additional fullness as Ryan slows beneath him.

\---

Every successful kill goes like that now, the ritual repeated again in September, October. And on the Saturday morning that the detective shows up at their doorstep, Geoff can guess easily at what Sunday has in store for him.

\---

**November 9, 2013**

The cop has shaken Geoff and he pours the rest of the coffee from the morning’s pot down the drain. Drinking it would've only served to make him more jittery.

He sits down with a glass of water at the computer, searching, on a whim, the crime section of a local news website. There had been more homicides this year, more missing people than normal--but none of the stories he brings up is accompanied by a picture of the man in the photograph.

In the sidebar, advertisements scroll through.

Hunting gear, mostly. He’s used to ignoring it--Michael and Ryan would look at the stuff in their idle time and then it would populate automatically into advertisements when they browsed other websites.

But on a whim, Geoff looks at what’s suggested.

“Outdoor Edge Game Processor”

“High-carbon 420 stainless steel blades”

“Ergonomic Kraton handles for grip”

“Steel Stick Ultimate Spreader”

Geoff clicks the last one, curiosity overcoming him.

It’s a benign looking little device. Just a hinged piece of metal, really.

The product description tells a different story, relating how the item  “keeps the body cavity of any medium to large-sized animal open for easy field dressing.”

Body cavity. Any animal. Geoff suppresses a shudder. He doesn’t enjoy thinking about them hunting, and yet he finds himself sickly curious. How did they skin the deer they brought down? Did they hoist it across a tree branch? Lay it on a tarp?

He never asked, telling himself that he didn’t want to know. But deep in his mind, some part of him does. Did Michael ever wield a knife? Where did they wash off afterwards? What did they do with the rest of the deer--the parts they didn’t bring home to eat?

Did they have a… spreader? Geoff imagines them, the scene coming to him unbidden, working without the tool, Michael using his large and confident hands to spread a gaping carcass as Ryan goes to work. It’s grisly, primal.  

Is that what had disturbed the detective? Surely it wasn’t unusual to find hunters in Texas. What had it been--why had the conversation turned?

\---  
 **November 10, 2013.**

Ryan and Michael come home smelling like unfamiliar soap in the morning. After the first time, they’d never smelled like blood again.

They’re not empty handed, jubilant as ever, lining up individually wrapped steaks on the kitchen counter.

And as much as Geoff is tempted to give into the flow of conversation, the bright moment with the two people he cares about more than anything, his curiosity is too strong, and he produces the picture immediately.

“Cop came by yesterday,” Geoff says, holding the photo out to Michael. Michael takes it into his hands, his fingers scrubbed pink and clean. “He’s looking for this guy, asked if any of us had seem him.”

Michael only barely looks at the photo before passing it to Ryan--quickly, too quickly, Geoff thinks.

“I don’t recognize him,” Michael says. “You, Ryan?”

Ryan is the opposite, carefully scrutinizing the face, turning the picture slightly, making a show of flipping it over to see if anything is written on the back.

“No idea,” Ryan says. “He’s one of the missing people?”

“I assume so,” Geoff says. “The detective wouldn’t really spill anything about what he wanted with the guy. He seemed interested in knowing where and when you two go hunting, though.”

Michael and Ryan both frown at that.

“Why would he care?” Ryan says carefully. Geoff shrugs. “What did you tell him?” Ryan asks.

“I said I don’t like hunting so I never asked,” Geoff says. “Which is the truth. And that I didn't remember the last time you went hunting. Which is a lie.”

“Well that’s freaky,” Michael says, a lopsided grimace on his face. “You think he thinks we… what, disappeared this guy?”

“No clue,” Geoff says. “It was fucking weird.”

There’s something electric and unspoken between Ryan and Michael in that moment, a tether of energy between the two men who suddenly won’t look at each other, whose buoyant energy is dampened in the revelation about the detective.

“Well, I’ve never been a person of interest before,” Ryan begins.

“Yeah you’ve never been an interesting person, either,” Michael interrupts him--and they step back into it, falling into the roles of the happy hunters returning home, unconcerned with the detective, not worried about anything but getting their kill in the refrigerator.

But Geoff knows he hasn’t imagined it--the moment before, the dark tether. 


	4. Flat Iron Filets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six months later and this story comes roaring back to life. Sorry for the delay and thank you for reading!

In Geoff’s first dream, he is a beast in the wilderness, closer to the ground, his senses alert and assaulted. It’s dark and he’s frightened. Smells--everything smells, wet earth, a body of water somewhere nearby, Geoff can smell the atmosphere, himself, acrid fear. Clumsy animals are behind him and he knows that he is their prey. A decision: run and be heard, hide and be trapped.

He runs.

Four legs pump beneath him as he careens through the night, through the forest, dodging trees--underbrush, thorns and twigs scratching his hide. The beasts are behind him, no longer clumsy, moving impossibly fast. They are fast but they are loud, deafening, hooting now behind him, taunting him, too confident.

He recognizes a laugh bubbling out of one of the monsters. It’s Michael.

He turns then, stops. Maybe he can reason with Michael. Maybe not all hope is lost.

Michael and Ryan enter his view, each man wielding a knife, each man moving at an impossible speed.

And Geoff wants to say “Stop, it’s me!” but all that comes out is a weak squawk, a braying really, and both men close in on him.

It’s me, it’s me, it’s me his mind screams out, his eyes wild with fear, and they’re laughing, laughing harder as he turns from beast to Geoff, his senses evening out as he becomes a man again--everything duller than his fear.

He’s conscious when they start to butcher him.

Michael cuts his shirt down the front with the knife he holds in one hand. Geoff still can’t find his voice. Michael straddles him on the forest floor, kissing him deeply, kissing him hard and smiling, laughing, before pushing himself back.

Ryan is there, then, pressing the tip of a wicked looking knife into Geoff’s belly.

“Ryan,” he finally says, his dry throat barely choking out the words. “Ryan.”

And Ryan only shrugs, smiling a wide smile down at him as he pushes the knife deeper.

Mercifully, perhaps, Ryan guts him with a cruel efficiency, the wound traveling from belly to sternum--and at first it doesn’t open, the knife so sharp that his viscera does not immediately understand that it’s been torn. But gravity takes over and the wound begins to gape and Geoff smells his own hot blood, not fearing now but asking for the inevitable death to come quickly.

“Ryan,” he says again--and it’s all he can say now, the man’s name over and over. _Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Why, why, why._ The two of them descend on Geoff as his body opens up, and there’s no pain, he realizes. Geoff feels… bliss. They begin to lap up the blood that frees itself.

And finally when they begin to feed on him in earnest, when the blood isn’t enough, when he feels the sharp bite of jaws into flesh, finally Geoff wakes.

He crashes into consciousness with a whimper that grows to a shout, waking the two men flanking him in the large bed. Michael reaches a hand across his belly and Geoff recoils from the touch, finding himself backed into Ryan, who lays a hand across his hips. He’s breathing hard and although he knows that the touch should comfort him, he wants to run from the room.

“You ok?” Michael asks, looking hurt in the dim light, not trying to touch Geoff again.

“Fucking nightmare,” Geoff says, breathing hard.

“It’s ok,” Ryan says. “We’re here.” Ryan runs a hand along Geoff’s arms slowly, warm. It’s affectionate but Geoff still shudders.

“You were hunting me,” Geoff says. And after a moment: “You were eating me.”

“It’s ok Geoff,” Michael says, not missing a beat. “We’re here now.”

Ryan reaches over Geoff’s side, then, and with an encouraging touch he brings Michael back. The two of them press against him and his cold fear begins to dissolve. He feels Ryan’s even breath against his scalp, the man laying his face against the back of Geoff’s head.

“You’re alright, Geoff,” Ryan says, soothing. “We’ve got you.”

Geoff’s heartbeat is slowing, the adrenaline dissipating.

“We’d never let anything happen to you,” Michael says, tucking himself into Geoff’s chest, under his chin--and it’s so right, so familiar here, the shape of the smaller man’s body against his own giving him a feeling like coming home--and Geoff drapes a hand over his waist.

“Safest place in the world,” Ryan murmurs into his skin.

The three of them stay tangled until Geoff falls back into sleep--disturbed and light, but blissfully without dreams.

\---

It’s the first of many nightmares.

\---

By November, Geoff has gotten acclimated to cooking venison. In fact, it takes the place of steak on their menu--something Geoff appreciates because the price of nice beef is ridiculous.

They’ve gotten a nice system down. Ryan and Michael come home with their large cuts wrapped in paper and then Geoff works on breaking each cut down into smaller steaks, loins, fillets. He seals some in plastic for the freezer, some goes into the fridge, and he puts out his favorite cut of the kill to cook that evening.

\---

Two days after the first, the nightmare continues. Geoff is himself now, wounded beyond repair but not dead. He’s been gutted, his corpse empty of organs and vital meat, and yet he’s still alive, still conscious. There’s no pain, even, but whenever he reaches to touch his own torso, he’s met with the body of a mutilated cadaver. He knows there’s no going back.

This time, Ryan and Michael are there again. They help him walk in the dark, their murmurs sounding like another language. A wall of sound finds them in the dark--cicadas, Geoff thinks--louder and louder until the sound has filled up everything, until it begins to hurt, Geoff’s empty ribs vibrating with it like a tuning fork, and he’s weeping, sobbing, the cicadas screaming and at the moment he is sure that the three of them are going to perish from the sheer vibration, he awakens.

It’s not violent this time. He does not make a noise. He isn’t even breathing hard.

Ryan has slept in the center that night and Geoff has an urge to crawl over the man, to tuck himself in between Ryan and Michael and let them whisper him back to sleep. But he knows it’s childish and he squashes the desire. He puts a hand on Ryan’s hip, just wanting that steady warmth.

Ryan wakes at the touch--or maybe he already was awake before that--and he moves to face Geoff, not waking Michael. Ryan doesn’t say anything tonight, as he gathers Geoff up.

\---

The nightmares become more and more disruptive. Geoff sleeps in the middle every night now--and all it takes is a gentle pressure on one of Ryan’s hands, on Michael’s leg, and both men scoot closer to him when he needs it, barely rousing out of their sleep now when they press on either side of him.

And strangely, the content of the nightmares becomes increasingly banal, until Geoff is simply dreaming about his normal life. But there is always some element that is _off_ in the dreams.

In one, Geoff comes to work and Gavin is simply gone. He brings it up to the other guys and they all insist that Gavin has _never_  worked with them, that he’s just one of Geoff’s friends.

In another dream, Michael and Ryan have already gone to work and Geoff takes his own car. He gets lost in the middle of Austin, calls work, tries to explain. They try to guide him, giving him directions. He just can’t get there.

\---

Geoff is drinking black coffee on Thursday morning, propped against the kitchen counter and just trying to get his brain started. He’s not hungry for breakfast--let Ryan and Michael fend for themselves. He’s not in the mood to read the paper and he fiddles with his phone instead.

Michael strolls into the kitchen, has been up longer than Geoff, already dressed. He’s humming and he lets a hand trail across Geoff’s shoulders as he makes his way to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Hey, I keep forgetting to ask you,” Geoff says, the touch somehow reminding him. “What did you do with that case of wine after you picked it up?”

Michael’s eyebrows knit together as he searches Geoff’s face.

“What wine?”

“At HEB--you said you’d picked it up after work Tuesday,” Geoff says.

“You must have me confused with your other boyfriend,” Michael says, smiling as Ryan enters the kitchen. Ryan waits on the other side of the counter--it gets crowded if all three of them try to start moving around in there at once.

“What’d I do?” Ryan asks, smiling back at Michael.

“No, it wasn’t--” Geoff starts. Had he dreamed that, then? “I thought you’d said you’d pick it up.”

“Sorry,” Michael says, looking genuinely apologetic. “I can go do it today, if you want?”

“No,” Geoff says. “I’ll pick it up. Sorry, I must have misheard.”

And now Geoff is doubting himself--had he even _ordered_ that case of wine or had that been part of a dream too? He sits down, ignoring the light conversation flowing between Michael and Ryan. He tries to think back to when he’d heard Michael say it. Tuesday--what was the context?

No. Yeah.

That was the night he’d dreamed that Jack had been in an accident. He’d been talking to Michael about the wine--in the dream--when they’d gotten the news that Jack had been in a wreck, but that he was ok.

Geoff checks the dream against reality. He’d seen Jack yesterday. No wreck. He’d dreamed about Michael picking up the wine.

\---

Thursday at work is rough. Geoff feels like he never wakes all the way up--like the misstep with Michael had been the continuation of one of his slightly off bad dreams. It’s hard to get his spine to straighten out, hard to get his eyes to focus under the hard lights of the office. He declines a scheduled recording, Ray filling in.

The only thing that keeps him going are the grounding touches from Ryan and Michael. It’s as if they _know_  he needs the reality check of fingertips pressed into his palm, of a hand cupping his elbow, a knee between his knees.

Saturday.

Geoff realizes that their next trip is Saturday, and he’ll be without them all that day, that night.

What would he have done on the night of that first dream if they hadn’t been there?

And Geoff knows it’s just because he’s overtired, because he’s had too much black coffee without much of anything to cut the edge, but anxiety begins to swell in his stomach as he thinks about waking up gasping in the big bed alone like a row boat in a turbulent, pitch-dark sea.

\---

“It’s called ‘gabba,’” Ryan says, holding out the bottle as if Geoff is supposed to know what the hell that means. He takes it anyway, examining the label. _GABA-SLEEP -- A DIETARY SUPPLEMENT, 120 VEGETARIAN CAPSULES._

“I think this is the first vegetarian thing you’ve ever brought into this house, Ryan,” Geoff says. He shakes the bottle and Ryan laughs softly at his dumb joke.

“The pharmacist swears by it,” Ryan says. “It’s non-narcotic and everything, totally natural.”

Geoff twists off the lid, expecting to have to break a tinfoil barrier in order to look at the capsules--but there’s nothing but a large cotton ball.

“Take one before bed tonight and see if you like it,” Ryan suggests. Geoff nods and caps the bottle again. He’d already gotten two bourbons deep before Ryan and Michael arrived at home and he’s suddenly too ashamed to ask if it’s something that can be taken with alcohol.

All that day, all he’s thought about is Saturday. The fact that the two men will be waking before sunrise, packing in the dark, chuckling together and leaving him before he can even brew a pot of coffee. Geoff had taken off from work early, beating them both home. Drowning his anxiety only barely worked, but it was something at least.

After the first bourbon, he briefly considered asking someone from work to come stay with him over the weekend.

Geoff had brought up Jack’s name in his contact list and left his phone on the coffee table to pour himself another drink.

By the time he got back to the phone, he’d already talked himself out of it. Even if he could find it in himself to explain how poorly he’d been sleeping lately, how bad the nightmares continue to fuck with him, it still wouldn’t put a warm body in the bed next to him to help fight the fear of waking in the middle of the night, to hold him and remind him that they’d do anything-- _anything_ \--to keep him feeling safe.

The feeling of panic bubbles and breaks and the bourbon--swallowed neat in short succession, no food to help damper the effects--has made him not himself. And this small gesture from Ryan is suddenly all too much. Geoff sits heavily down onto one of the bar stools.

“Geoff,” Ryan says. “What’s wrong? You don’t have to take them--it’s not--I was just trying to help?” Ryan is at his back, an arm across his shoulders.

“It’s not that at all,” Geoff says. “It’s so stupid.”

“What is?”

“I’m freaking out about this weekend,” Geoff says. “These dreams have me--it’s so abstract--it’s like I don’t feel safe?”

_Without you and Michael here._

It sounds too stupid, too dramatic to say out loud.

Luckily, Geoff doesn’t have to. Ryan is already turning him, pulling him off of the stool, pressing kisses into his temples, stroking up and down his arms.

“We’ll stay, Geoff,” Ryan says. “It’s not important. We’ll stay here with you.”

“I don’t want to--”

“Honestly,” Ryan says. “I’ll talk to Michael.”

“Maybe--I mean, I can take this stuff. Maybe once I get some real sleep my brain will stop going haywire.”

“Of course,” Ryan says.

“And you can go next weekend,” Geoff says, knowing he’s babbling.

“Geoff, you’re fine--if we need to skip a trip, it’s fine,” Ryan says.

“I don’t want you to have to.”

“You’re more important than a hobby,” Ryan says, and he catches Geoff in a kiss, and if Ryan hadn’t known he’d been drinking that afternoon already, he knows now. There’s no chance the man misses the aftertaste of the liquor on Geoff’s mouth--but Ryan doesn’t pull away from the kiss. When they break, there’s no question in Ryan’s eyes, no scolding.

Geoff could almost cry from relief.

They’re staying--they’ll stay. He won’t be alone.

“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” Ryan suggests.

“No, I--I’ll cook, I want to cook,” Geoff says.

“You sure?” Ryan says.

“Yeah, I’d like to,” Geoff says. “Keep my mind occupied. Besides, I already took a cut out to thaw.”

\---

It’s taken several harvests for Geoff to put aside enough flat iron steaks for tonight’s meal.

Geoff isn’t sure when he started calling the hunts “harvests.” Maybe it was after he’d realized how much he’s enjoyed the fresh game meat. Maybe it was after the dream where he’d been hunted. It was easier to think of it--the hunt, the kill, the butchering--that way.

Geoff had first seen the flat iron cut of meat on a restaurant menu. Curious, he’d ordered it. He found the cut to be somewhere between a traditional filet and a flank steak: the grain uniform and satisfying, the meat rich with its own flavor.

When he’d Googled the cut later, he learned that “flat iron” was just a nice piece of branding. The steak is a cut that comes from the beef shoulder, what’s normally called a top blade steak. And later, when Michael and Ryan had begun supplying meat, he’d asked specifically that they try and bring home a shoulder when possible.

The venison was smaller than a beef shoulder, of course. He’d ruined two shoulders--reducing them to badly mangled stew meat--before understanding exactly how soft a touch it took to butcher the cut properly. Instead of clumsily cross-cutting the muscle--which resulted in a tough steak laced with gristle--Geoff had begun to cut from the two layers of the top blade, using a meat hook to remove the thick rope of connective tissue bisecting the cut. He had to utilize everything he’d learned so far about butchering meat, from the precise cuts and gentle finesse with a mirror-edged knife to the sinew-ripping, muscle straining struggle of removing impossibly tough membranes.

It’s given Geoff a lot to think about--a lot to wonder over, really. It had taken nature so many centuries to hone the creature before him into what it was. Evolution made it an ideal form realized. And on top of that, it took years for each individual life to grow, cells to cycle and build muscle in an invisible, ever-moving process. So much had to happen to each animal between birth and the cutting board. It felt dark at first, but the more time he’s spent with the meat--finding the best way to prepare it, carefully separating the elements, serving the nourishment to the most important people in his life--it’s difficult for Geoff to regard the meat with the macabre wariness he’d felt at first.

What they were doing together was ancient. Significant. Loving, in its own way.  

Geoff shakes his head and fights a smile as he paces through the kitchen. He’s letting himself get too sentimental. Over meat, of all things.

If Ryan and Michael could be magically privy to his thoughts, Geoff muses, their eyes would roll out of their heads. They already picked on him for being too philosophical, and here he is composing a love song to a flat iron steak in his head.

\---

Cooking, in the end, does help Geoff get out of his own thoughts.

The small venison cuts are chilly but when he pushes a thumb into the surface, the meat is pliant. They’re thawed, and not so cold that they’ll freeze up on a hot pan, either.

The familiar steps come together and Geoff’s hands are working by themselves as he curls a knob of butter into a warm pan, slices fingerling potatoes lengthwise, lays them cut-side down onto the slightly sizzling surface. He cracks pepper over the pan, slings large grains of salt over the surface of the potatoes. Geoff isn’t sure if it’s the buzz of his third bourbon or the new promise that he won’t be alone this weekend that has him feeling slightly as if he’s making music as he cooks, but the feeling of sonorous notes coming together in a pleasant way is undeniable. He’s cruising effortlessly as he cooks and it feels like being caught in a strong, cold river current.

Michael is by his side then.

“How should the shallot go?” he wants to know, wielding a short knife, taking down a separate cutting board from the cabinet.

“Thin sliced--then juice the lemon and toss them in that,” Geoff says.

Michael’s voice sounds warm and full of adoration when he says, “You got it boss,” and begins to prep.

The fingerlings are off, the steaks are in the pan, and Ryan is behind them, watching them move and work together, taking deep breaths of the scented air. Geoff doesn’t use a timer, doesn’t need it, can almost just feel when the steaks need to be flipped. He curls another knob of butter into the pan and the pat sizzles and melts and Michael is pressing a cold spoon into Geoff’s hand, knowing the next steps, watching as Geoff tilts the pan with one hand to spoon the melted butter over the three small steaks with the other.

At Geoff’s word, Michael uses tongs to take the steaks off the heat, to let the meat rest for a few moments lest they bleed out flavorful liquid at the first cut. And then Ryan is there and moving with the two of them with an instinctive flow that keeps the kitchen from feeling crowded as Ryan passes Geoff the rough-chopped ramps, the warm fingerlings, the asparagus that Michael had prepared as Geoff cooked. The two men watch as Geoff scrapes the fond left over in the pan and begins to prepare the vegetables in butter--the ramps wilting, the asparagus transforming to a deeper green, the potatoes going a rich golden color, and all of the ingredients combining to paint the air between the three of them with a scent that can almost be tasted without ever touching a morsel of food.

\---

The meat is sliced. The elements are plated. They move to the table.

The marbling is just as Geoff had hoped. The meat is unlike anything he’s ever tasted. Red wine materializes from nowhere, Ryan keeping their glasses full. Michael passes a crusty baguette across the table. There is butter and large grains of salt, richness cut with acidity, the symphony of eating and drinking and silverware on plates is enhanced by the flow of easy, unhurried conversation, of bubbling laughs and satisfied sighs, and Geoff can hardly remember how he’d felt a few hours ago, who he’d been then, because there is no place on the earth where he is more needed and important than seated here between Michael and Ryan, no people he’d rather be with, no time he’s ever felt as loved and cared for.

\---

It is inevitable that they fall into bed together that night as a jumble of hands and mouths; the sex had already begun in the kitchen, Geoff realizes as Michael kisses into him, as Ryan strokes a hand across his naked hip.

He took the gaba sleep supplement before dinner at Ryan’s suggestion, just as they were sitting down.

“It can take some time to kick in,” Ryan says. “More on top of food. And you should take it with food until you know how your stomach will handle it.”

Ryan didn’t need to offer him an explanation. Geoff took the pill. Was it kicking in now? He doesn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of sex, but at the same time he knows he has nothing to fear with the two of them. In the worst case scenario, they’d simply finish without him before settling on either side of him in bed: a human barrier against nightmares.

And Geoff isn’t even sure how long he’s been hard but it hadn’t taken much tonight as relief and affection coalesce to form insistent desire. He’s hungry for both men, yet Ryan holds the reins--posing the two of them, adding a touch and stroke here or there before sitting back to watch like a painter plotting the next field of color.

They both go to work on Geoff, even though he doesn’t want to be a passive party at first. But the more Ryan speaks low, soothing dirty talk into his ear, the more the stronger man presses him down into the mattress, the less urgency and frantic lust Geoff feels. His boil slows to a simmer as Ryan directs Michael to sit behind Geoff.

Geoff begins to slide down to take his place in Michael’s lap, but Michael holds him tight--chest to back--laying wet lips against his neck before teasing the skin with his front teeth and then turning his head to worry the skin in earnest with his canines. Geoff chokes a moan at the stimulation, nerve endings buzzing and confused and making his hard-on throb helplessly.  

With Michael at Geoff’s neck, Ryan begins his work.

Ryan’s sex takes on the distinct quality of a narrative each time--whether it is stream of consciousness or a carefully crafted plot. Sometimes it’s difficult for Geoff to tell when the main story has begun, to determine if Ryan’s conclusion will be to tease Geoff open before Michael fucks him, whether the man will invite Geoff and Michael to take ownership of his own body, or if he wants to make a show of fucking Michael to tears in front of Geoff. To say that Ryan is a consummate storyteller in bed would be a gross understatement, Geoff thinks, because even during the quickest, most casual sessions, Ryan’s progress is full of plot twists, foreshadowing, red herrings.

When he settles into the plot tonight, leaning into Geoff, kissing into him, Geoff knows it. Not the arc or the trajectory, no. But Ryan has a plan.

Michael’s hands and mouth never stop as Ryan makes his way down from Geoff’s lips, pausing only to lay a kiss into Michael just beyond Geoff’s ear--close enough to hear the sharp, small breath Michael takes as Ryan bites the youngest man’s lip. Then Ryan is back, sucking a line of marks down the center of Geoff’s chest as Michael grasps at his hips.

Finally Ryan squeezes a slicked hand around the base of Geoff’s cock and Geoff gasps at the contact, looking down to catch the smile across Ryan’s lips, to watch the other man eye the bead of precum on his tip before unashamedly tasting him. Geoff succumbs to the sight, letting more of his weight fall onto Michael behind him. Michael is straining to see, too, humming in appreciation before laying a dry kiss into the shell of Geoff’s ear.

“Do you trust us, Geoff?” Ryan asks, pulsing a squeeze around his base.

“Of course,” Geoff says, not having to dig for the answer, not knowing what Ryan might be building towards and not trying to know, content to let Ryan craft whatever reality he wants here between the three of them.

“You trust us with your life?” Michael murmurs into his ear. “You know we want the best for you?”

“Yes, Michael,” Geoff says. Ryan’s eyes are on Michael’s face next to Geoff’s. The man nods, only barely perceptible, and Michael’s weight moves behind him. The hands are gone from his sides and Michael is moving, arching up, and Geoff can feel one of the man’s tanned arms on the side of his neck, snaking forward and across his chest, the forearms roped with muscle.

“Tap his arm and he’ll stop, Geoff,” Ryan says--and Geoff does not process the implication yet as the forearm goes perpendicular to his throat, as Michael grasps his wrist to pull the bone straight across Geoff’s windpipe, applying a sudden and abrupt pressure.

Geoff’s body shudders but he doesn’t struggle as Michael begins to choke him.

A few feet away, Ryan has sunk a velvet mouth down around his cock, his tongue working. Geoff has never done this before, has never had the impulse to, has only heard perhaps that it makes pleasure more pleasurable. And Ryan does feel good around him, but Geoff’s heart is already pounding and the bone of Michael’s arm lays a stripe of pain across him that he can’t ignore--that becomes more insistent than the sensation between his legs--and Geoff finds himself bucking, struggling, feels Ryan choke around him at the movement, and finally his brain processes the puzzle correctly and he remembers what Ryan had only just told him, reaching up to flutter his fingertips against Michael’s forearm: _tap tap taptaptap._

Michael eases off immediately, though he doesn’t unhook his arms from around Geoff’s neck, and the man in the middle feels suddenly claustrophobic as he sucks rough breaths into his lungs--and he can’t help but recall the first dream, the cold fear, the imaginary smell of his own blood. And just as if Geoff had really come out of a nightmare, Ryan rises, soothing, hands steady and confident on Geoff, voice mellow and gentle.

“That’s ok, Geoff, you’re ok,” he says.

Geoff’s eyes are watering and Ryan thumbs a tear off of his cheek.

His windpipe aches.

“Do you want to try again?”

Geoff doesn’t, he realizes. He wants to fuck or be fucked, hands on his body, a mouth on his mouth--but breathing, free to breathe as much as he wants.

“I do,” he lies.

There is nothing at stake. Michael and Geoff have stopped progress like this a hundred times before. No hard feelings.

Yet Geoff cannot bring himself to do it tonight. He wants this for them. He wants to prove how important they are, how willing he is to put his life into their hands. To tell them that they can hurt him if it will improve their lives in some way, maybe.

Ryan’s eyes dance and they both position themselves again for another try.

“You’re ready?” Michael asks tenderly. Geoff nods. The forearm goes tight again. The bone feels almost sharp against his neck and Geoff wonders this time if it will leave a mark. Geoff’s diaphragm twitches, sucking against the void as Michael crushes into his throat, as Ryan swallows around his length. There is only pain and panic--he cannot even feel Ryan this time--and he’s crying in in spite of himself as he lays the taps into Michael’s skin. He does not want to disappoint them.

Ryan circles around and begins to soothe again, but this time he puts a firm hand around Michael’s wrist, easing him off until the arms are no longer around Geoff’s neck. Ryan sets the palm of his hand against the front of Geoff’s throat and ghosts a line across it.

“I see the problem,” he says, his eyes still on the skin of Geoff’s neck. “Will you let me try, Geoff? We can make it good.”

Geoff nods.

Ryan and Michael switch places--and with Ryan behind him, Geoff realizes he feels more comfortable almost instantly. The pieces of him that were coiled tight as a spring begin to relax again. He is safe, he is floating, he is cared for. His eyes are on Michael now as the youngest man takes position between his knees, smiling and stroking his hips.

“I’m sorry, Geoff,” Michael says. “I should’ve just let Ryan do it--I knew I’d fuck it up.”

“You’re ok,” Ryan says, not giving Geoff time to respond.

Ryan settles in, takes a deep breath. Michael begins to stroke Geoff from base to tip as he looks up into the faces of the other two men. Geoff lets his weight fall back, appreciating every breath, every touch, the wall of muscle behind him.

“There are two types of chokes, Michael,” Ryan says. He drapes his arms on either side of Geoff’s neck.

“There is an air choke,” Ryan says. “And a blood choke. The air choke crushes the windpipe--across here.” And at that, he strokes two fingertips across the front of Geoff’s throat where Michael had been applying the most pressure.

“A blood choke safely compresses one or both of the carotid arteries. Here--” Ryan says, punctuating the statement with a dry kiss on one side of Geoff’s throat-- “and here.” He moves to kiss the other side.

“An air choke should only be used in an emergency,” Ryan says. Geoff is barely following. The gentle touches from Ryan, the mellow voice, Michael’s stroking hand are all combining and his eyelids feel heavy. “It can injure the windpipe, it is exceedingly uncomfortable, and it will only make the other person panic. It also takes far longer to be effective.”

Michael is humming the entire time in agreeance, apparently listening to and internalizing the lecture from Ryan. There’s a smooth transition between hand and mouth on Geoff’s cock at some point but Geoff does not see because his eyes are closed. He lets the words, the sensations wash over him. Michael’s mouth is tender and hot and alive around him.

“A blood choke, on the other hand, can be almost soothing,” Ryan says. The arms at either side of Geoff’s neck come to life. Geoff is not afraid as Ryan begins to position himself. “If you compress both arteries, it will only take a handful of seconds to render unconsciousness.”

Geoff feels almost comforted as Ryan’s arm goes tighter around his throat. The girth of the limb exceeds Michael’s, the bone padded out with more muscle, the skin with more soft hair.

“If unconsciousness is not your goal, be careful to compress just one side,” Ryan says. “Use the muscle of your arm--not the bone of the forearm. The windpipe is cushioned in the crook of the elbow as you flex and constrict, conserving your own energy.”

The choke, as Ryan begins, feels like an embrace. Michael is stroking around him. Geoff can still breathe as Ryan compresses his artery--and the breath feels like a gift.

“In the right state of mind, they’ll feel euphoric,” Ryan says. Each stroke grows exponentially, a feedback loop that ought to be outside of the borders of reality, building on itself like a rogue wave in the open ocean, and a strange synesthesia sets in as Geoff’s oxygen flow stops, the feeling of Michael on his cock becoming more than a feeling--a palette of brilliant colors, a savory taste, a pleasure he can hear as orgasm builds and unfurls into every cell in Geoff’s body.

“Do you feel euphoric, Geoff?” Ryan whispers, the ghost of his breath on Geoff’s ear as he tightens his arm, as breath is suddenly no longer possible, as the edges of Geoff’s vision go black, the sight of Michael’s brown eyes looking up to him moving impossibly far away, and every part of Geoff’s body comes alive as his orgasm truly begins now, as he comes and comes and comes, as if he’s unable to stop, as if something cosmic has broken for good now and there will be nothing but this, happening somehow to Geoff and somehow not because he’s far from his body now, their bedroom feeling like a memory, deprived now of sense, but at the same time calm, steady and so calm.

\---

Geoff doesn’t dream.

\---

Geoff wakes fully dressed with the beginning of a bruise punctuating the skin on the front of his throat. He decides not to shave--less questions if it blossomed into a full-blown mark. His reflection in the mirror looks no less exhausted than usual, but he feels more collected, more real than he has in weeks.

 _Ah well,_ he thinks to himself ironically. Maybe it will take more than one good night of sleep to restore him to his former fresh-faced glory.

\---

“Who dressed me last night?” Geoff wants to know as he shuffles into the kitchen.

“You dressed yourself,” Michael says, squinting at him.

“Seriously?” Geoff says. “I had such a nice mental image of the two of you lovingly dressing my unconscious body.”

“You didn’t lose consciousness,” Ryan says from somewhere behind him, shuffling things into and out of a bag.

“No?” Geoff says. “I don’t remember anything after you choking me.”

“I wouldn’t choke you to unconsciousness, Geoff,” Ryan says. He presses a kiss into Geoff’s cheek. “I wouldn’t do permanent damage to you just to get you off.”

“Hm, that’s a shame,” Geoff jokes.

“Must have been the sleep supplement messing with your memory,” Ryan offers.

“Probably,” Geoff says. “At least the damn thing worked.”

Ryan and Michael exchange a look.

“What?” Geoff asks.

“You were up and down all night,” Michael says. “We both thought you must be miserable.”

“I don’t remember that at all,” Geoff admits. He’s making emotional calculations now. Was lost time as upsetting as nightmares? He doesn’t feel ill-rested.

“Yeah dude, you kept crawling over me to get out of bed,” Michael says. “I could’ve strangled Ryan for bringing those fucking pills home for you.”

“Shit,” Geoff says. And as he looks between their two faces, they _do_ look more tired than usual.

“Let me make it up to you,” Geoff offers. “You two head in and I’ll go to Bold Bean on my way in.”

“For realsies?” Michael asks, his face lighting up. “Do they still make that uh--that peach thing?”

“I’ll ask,” Geoff says.

“Thanks Geoff,” Ryan says, smiling and joining Michael on the other side of the counter. “I’m glad you’re the one feeling rested for a change, at least.”

\---

Geoff doesn’t recognize the cop at first. All he sees is a man in a dark suit taking a place across from him at the bakery, uninvited, holding a cup of coffee.

\---

They do still make ‘that peach thing,’ Geoff had discovered--but the next round of them wouldn’t be ready for at least five more minutes when he’d asked. He says he’s happy to wait, pays the woman behind the register, and leaves a nice tip. He’s in a good mood.

He settles into a table near the counter to wait for the rest of his pastry order. The stranger slides into a chair opposite of him before he has the first sip of his cup of coffee.

“You look awful, Mr. Ramsey,” the man says.

The voice jogs his memory. Detective Decker.

“Thanks, Detective,” he says, flat.

“You haven’t been here in a while,” Decker says. “Seemed like it used to be your favorite spot.”

He’s been following Geoff and he wants Geoff to know it. To react, maybe.

Just the fact that the man is looking for a reaction out of him, prodding and testing, makes Geoff go cold. He doesn’t rise to the bait, although he can’t say why. He has nothing to hide, of course.

“Not much of a morning person lately,” Geoff says.

“Right,” Decker says. “You don’t look it, either. Rough night?”

“Best sleep I’ve had in weeks, actually,” Geoff says, cutting his eyes at the man. “Thanks for asking.”

“You look like you got on the wrong side of a bad grappler,” Decker says, stroking the skin of his own neck and looking down to Ramsey’s throat.

Geoff steels himself, keeping his voice low.

“Do you have something you want to ask me or is this the kind of charming banter you throw around with all of your friends over breakfast?”

Decker does not miss a beat.

“They’re due for a hunt this weekend, aren’t they?”

“Have you been following us?”

“We’re looking for two perps now,” Decker says.

“This conversation is over,” Geoff says. He stands up to stride out and almost runs into the woman from the bakery. She passes him the bag of pastries he’d paid for and he’s thrown off by her warm smile, disoriented. He continues his path towards the door.

“Mr. Ramsey,” the detective says behind him. Geoff does not stop. He pushes around a group of four young women to the exit, hoping the strangers will be enough of a barrier as he speeds to his car. Instead, he can hear the man on the sidewalk behind him.

“Thought you ought to know. We’ve come across some interesting evidence that’s not in the papers. No way one person could be doing it all.”

He’s at his car, the locks popped, but he has to put the coffee on the roof of his car to maneuver his messenger bag, the paper bag of pastries.

“Grand,” Geoff says, struggling to juggle everything. “I’m happy for your team--really I am. Maybe if you concentrated on finding them instead of tailing people who make Youtube videos for a living, you could actually put some dangerous people in jail.”

“Don’t you want to know the new findings, Mr. Ramsey? Not even a little curious.”

“No,” Geoff says.

“They’re butchering people like game,” Decker says, loud, apparently not caring who hears.

The statement stops Geoff.

“It just looked like random violence at first,” the detective says--and the man has closed the distance between them. He’s close now, his voice lower. “They get better at cutting the vics up each time. Forensics can even trace the blades to a field butchering kit--the kind of thing you’d use on a deer.”

Geoff shivers not at the statement but at the proximity of the man. The distinct feeling of bile rising washes over him. This man is his enemy. This man is not here to protect him.

“They’re taking real cuts of meat now like the vics are cattle,” Decker says. “Think they cook it or just take it home and eat it raw, Ramsey?”

As Geoff turns, he realizes his fists are curled tight, his shoulders hunched in a boxer’s stance--as if his body were ready to take over, as if he could fathom fighting a plainclothes cop in broad daylight.

Instead, he grits his teeth and forces himself down into the car.

“You’re a real sick fucker, detective,” Geoff says.

He slams the door closed and cuts on the engine with shaking hands.

 

 


	5. Steak haché oeuf à cheval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning: the timeline at the beginning of this chapter is chopped and jumbled. After the long horizontal rule, the story is linear again.
> 
> If you are easily triggered by reading something disorienting, please check back. I will post a link soon to a document that has the same story written in a linear timeline without the jumps.

The house that the GPS guides Geoff to -- his apparent destination -- is buried in a thick swath of forest, off back from the road. He misses the turnoff twice before finally navigating down what he hopes is the correct dirt road.

Geoff immediately regrets visiting it for the first time after dark.

When he comes to the clearing -- sees the house -- the pine trees surrounding him feel like a massive living rib cage.

The house is empty. Dark.

He parks the car but doesn’t cut the headlights.

\---

Everyone can agree that for a while Geoff is very much the man he used to be.

And it’s good to have him back.

The others had been almost worried during the weeks of nightmares, the times when Geoff stayed stone cold sober at work and yet still seemed to drift

In another lifetime maybe they would’ve been worried. In a world where they’d never seen Geoff lost and morose before bouncing back -- then maybe someone would’ve intervened.

But really it’s notes in a familiar tune. Part of what makes Geoff himself -- part of why they like him.

The good times are sweeter, after all, when not all the times are good.

And besides: he has Ryan and Michael -- adept and apparently unconcerned. They know him now better than anyone, and they never seem to share the rest of the team’s almost-concern when Geoff comes in looking increasingly weary, increasingly bent and quiet and distant.

They trust the two of them to look after Geoff.

And so Ray and Gavin and Jack don’t get involved. They give Geoff his space and Jack takes the reins -- plotting the recording schedule, setting up, taking charge. Just as he’s done in the past.

And then? It’s over.

Like a fog burning off a winter morning, Geoff arrives with a large paper bag of pastries and a smile on his face.

They do not notice the red mark across his throat like a ligature. They don’t register his leg as it bounces like a crazed metronome. What they see is Geoff is good spirits.

It is what they want to see -- and so it is all they see.

\---

Geoff tells Michael and Ryan two days in advance that he is going to a concert on Thursday night.

Alone. Crust punk. They wouldn’t like it.

Geoff has worked up an entire scenario to explain himself, complete with a historically accurate backstory. He’s found a real concert he can swing by that night too, maybe buy a t-shirt and get his clothes smelling convincingly like cigarettes and booze and the familiar miasma of _small club punk show_.

But Ryan doesn’t even ask the name of the band. Michael does not pester him about tagging along.

Ryan gets a crooked look and Michael smiles at Geoff sweetly.

“Sure, Geoff,” Michael says. “We can fend for ourselves Thursday night.”

“Yeah, we’ll try not to set the kitchen on fire without you,” Ryan adds.

“Christ,” Geoff says. “Is that all I am to you two? Your live-in chef?”

“Come now,” Ryan says, affecting a haughty tone and breaking into a smile. “You’re at the very least a live-in chef _and_ courtesan.”

“Yikes,” Geoff says, rolling his eyes.

He is relieved of course that they have bought his story.

But there is a piece of Geoff that watches the two of them exchange a glance, then, that cannot help but feel that they know exactly where he is headed.

And exactly what he will find there.

\---

In the two weeks after Geoff starts taking the sleep supplement Ryan had brought to him, views on Youtube spike dramatically.

At least -- they spike for videos that feature Geoff.

Comments predictably range from positive to hateful.

“Geoff is cracking my ass up in this one, omg. I didn’t realize how much I missed having him in videos.”

“JFC GEOFF IS SOOOO ANNOYING sober up dude!!”

“Does anybody else feel like Geoff sounds like he used to again? Circa 2010 Geoff is so good.”

\---

Geoff sees Detective Decker everywhere now.

He watches as the detective’s black sedan slips behind them in traffic on I-35.

He sees the man’s dark, close-cropped hair as he ducks with Ryan around a corner in HEB.

He catches a glimpse of Decker pulling off when Geoff and Michael arrive home after work.

In the end, Geoff hadn’t told Michael and Ryan about the confrontation at the bakery -- the grisly things Decker had said to him and the distinctly animal feeling that the three of them were now behind hunted by the man.

He still considers telling them.

But every time the conversation steers in that direction -- whether it’s a newspaper clipping or a report on the news or a discussion about rescheduling the hunting weekend that they’d missed because of Geoff’s anxiety -- the air crackles between Ryan and Michael.

And Geoff shuts down.

So he will deal with Decker alone.

\---

Geoff’s suspicions that Ryan may have purchased a piece of property begin when junk mail begins to flow into their mailbox with Ryan’s name on it.

“SPECIAL PRE-APPROVAL OFFER FOR RYAN HAYWOOD”

“INSIDE -- SAVE ON HOME INSURANCE”

“WE BEAT THE BEST FIXED RATE MORTGAGE”

“Buying a new house, Ryan?” Geoff had joked, passing over the pile of ads.

“Maybe,” Ryan had said, smiling. “Would that bother you?”

It was absurd. Of course Ryan wouldn’t buy a house without telling Geoff and Michael.

“Only if you’re planning on taking Michael away and moving out,” Geoff had said, catching him by the hip.

“Never,” Ryan had said, going serious and turning in to face Geoff. “The important things we do -- we do them together. Right?”

“Of course,” Geoff had said, not understanding the sudden gravity, letting Ryan kiss him deep for no reason there in the doorway, their hands full of mail.

\---

Geoff isn’t sure how long he stays in the car, just peering at the house in front of him.

It’s an unassuming little thing in the middle of a meadow. By the clean siding, the unstained roof, it looks like it’s been fixed up recently. One story. A modest footprint. No landscaping -- just a gravel path cleared up from the dirt road to the house.

If Geoff had come during the day, it would’ve seemed almost welcoming. A hideaway.

But tonight, as the structure stands stark in the clearing, there is something uncanny and unsettling about it. Incongruent. As if the fertile Elgin earth had split open and vomited up a perfect bungalow before closing again.

Something is wrong.

\----

Days bleed together, but Geoff is sleeping.

Work and home bleed together -- but Geoff is sleeping.

He no longer wakes up in nightmares that haunt him for the rest of the day.

Geoff is lucid but jumbled. Had he eaten that entire roast in the fridge overnight or had someone thrown it out? Had he begged to be choked the night before or had that been a dream?

After being run ragged by nightmares and lack of sleep, though, it is a relief to be sleeping. Ryan and Michael begin to shoulder more of the responsibilities -- grocery shopping, paying bills, driving Geoff to and from work.

Geoff tells himself that it’s a mental vacation. That as soon as he’s caught up on sleep and a little less stressed, he’ll no longer need to take the sleep aid each night -- that he’ll cut back on drinking, or maybe even stop drinking entirely for a few weeks.

He just needs to catch up first.

The number of pills in the bottle dwindles.

Geoff finds a fresh bottle one evening on the shelf next to the current bottle when he’s down to just three or four remaining pills. Ryan must have picked it up for him.

Geoff had planned on stopping once the first bottle was empty -- but he still wakes up groggy and wanting more sleep each day. And Ryan and Michael seem happy to provide for him -- as if they’d been waiting for ages to take care of him the same way he’d always taken care of them.

He can understand the appeal, after all. There is an ego-level satisfaction he gleans from preparing their food, from running the household. Boss at work and boss at home, too. It feels like Geoff’s role in the relationship. Ryan directs leisure, Michael brings endless energy and enthusiasm, and Geoff is the anchor.

And it has been unexpected, the way Geoff has been able to relax with Ryan and Michael doing more and more of what Geoff has always considered his own jobs, with the men suddenly taking over most of Geoff’s life.

Geoff had seen it happen in other relationships -- especially when one party took ill. If Geoff’s health had necessitated a long hospital stay, Michael and Ryan would’ve acted the same way.

So Geoff can’t be faulted for not feeling bad when he allows the men to care for him.

Just for a little while.

\---

Geoff is waiting for them in the kitchen when they return from HEB. He’s already started to work with the meat for the dish, feeding the cuts slowly into the grinding attachment on their standing mixer, appreciating the way that the firm, nicely-marbled filets were so easily processed into bright pink coils.

He rinses his tattooed hands, patting them on the black half-apron tied around his hips, before retrieving the container of salt, rubbing large crystals through his fingertips, spreading it across the surface of the meat. Geoff cracks pepper into the mix, too, twisting the compartments of the large grinder, smelling the scent that is released but careful not to breathe too deep and cause himself to sneeze.

When they push through the kitchen door, Michael leads the way with Ryan close behind, carrying the brown bag of groceries. They hadn’t needed much, after all. Some more butter, capers, parsley, anchovies. Some produce: turnips, an apple, a pear, radishes, savoy cabbage. Geoff already had eggs and meat and oil and broth and garlic -- the basics.

“This is… by far the weirdest grocery list you’ve given us so far,” Ryan says, setting the bag down on the kitchen island and then joining Geoff at the counter, peering into mixing bowl at the meat Geoff has prepared.

“Please tell me the anchovies and pears aren’t going into the same dish?” Michael says from the other side of the island, pulling up a bar stool. He pours himself a little bit of the red wine Geoff has opened.

Geoff turns and frowns at him. He leans towards Michael over the island counter, pressing his hands down on the cool granite.

“Have I **_ever_** fed you something objectionable?” Geoff asks.

Ryan puffs a soft laugh behind him.

“Never once,” Michael says through a broad smile -- and Ryan laughs louder at this, suddenly behind Geoff, catching him with arms around Geoff’s waist and leaning into him. Michael’s expression goes softer with fondness as he watches Ryan press kisses into Geoff’s neck.

“Hey, watch it,” Geoff says, swatting a little at Ryan. The man doesn’t relent. “Don’t tickle me, fuck.”

“So do we get a spoiler for what you’re making with all this stuff?” Ryan asks.

“Steak haché oeuf à cheval,” Geoff says with a clipped accent. “With a sweet and savory ragout.”

“Oh well that clears it up,” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

“Chopped steak with fried eggs,” Ryan translates for him.

“So, like a burger?” Michael asks.

Geoff shoots him a death glare.

“Or… you know… not at all like a burger. Obviously nothing like a burger,” Michael says. Geoff smiles at his backtracking, and Ryan releases him to step back around, joining Michael on the other side of the counter.

“You need vegetables chopped?” Michael asks, standing now.

“Yeah,” Geoff says, reaching for the bag and setting the vegetables out. “Give me the onion thin-sliced. Carrots in third-inch pieces. Peel and core the fruit -- and then I want those in one-inch pieces. Cabbage needs to be rough chopped… and then quarter the turnips and radishes.”

“You got it,” Michael says, finding the right knife from the block.

A few months ago, Michael would’ve insisted that Geoff slow down or make him a list -- but the more they’ve cooked together, the better Michael has gotten about holding all of the long instructions in his head as they work.

Ryan says something about laundry and disappears.

\---

Geoff takes a tablet of the supplement each night, finishing off the bottle. When Geoff goes to open the new bottle that had appeared for him, he expects to peel back a tin foil covering or have to throw out a big cotton ball. But the bottle is already prepped for him.

Geoff shakes the first tab from the new bottle into his palm.

It’s ridiculous that Ryan thought he couldn’t open up his own pills, but he can’t fault the man for being thorough.

\----

Geoff exits his car, standing for a moment by the vehicle, and the sounds of the meadow are eerie.

The surrounding forest is alive -- and Geoff has a jarring moment as he realizes that he’s just thought to himself, _“There’s so much around us.”_

There is no _us,_ of course. Geoff is alone.

So why had he thought of himself as linked to the house? Why had he so instantly accepted a house that may not even belong to Ryan as part of his own definition of _same_ in a world that is divided into _same and other?_

But of course the house belongs to Ryan. Geoff had seen the address on the transaction record, right next to the purchase price and Ryan’s name. There was nothing ambiguous about the land transaction.

And so Geoff’s consciousness had quickly assimilated the property into all that made up Ryan -- Ryan’s car, Ryan’s clothes, Ryan’s desk.

Ryan’s secret house in Elgin.

Geoff cracks his neck -- as if to release himself from the philosophical meandering -- and flicks on the heavy flashlight in his hand.

\---

There is a feeling of euphoria for Geoff in living day to day and not letting anxiety touch him -- paying no mind to the dark corners of worry that begged him to visit and stay.

There is a comfort in being ferried from work to home to outings, in being shuffled from kitchen to living room to bedroom, in having wine pressed into his hands at home and liquor tilted into his drinks at work.

Everyone laughs more. Geoff had missed this.

He is drifting in the wide marsh between sleep and waking one morning. He cannot remember why they ever stopped laughing.

Or maybe it had just been Geoff who had stopped. Maybe Ryan and Michael had been waiting for him to come back to himself all along. They were patient -- so patient. They’d skipped their hunting weekend to be with him and Geoff can’t remember when they said they’d go again. It doesn’t matter.

\---

With dry hands, Geoff shapes four fat patties of ground meat before laying them into a hot pan.

No -- they weren’t like hamburgers, which got grilled hard and pressed into the pan, bleeding out savory juice that crackled in the pan until each patty was cooked through with a pleasant crisp crust. The steak patties would get seared on each side but not crusty -- not reduced to a bland gray in the center -- remaining, instead, a vivid, rare pink.

So many dishes wanted you to cook the meat taste out of the meat, Geoff thinks. It was natural to want to forget that the substance of what you’re cooking was _born_ , had _lived_ , had _died_ just so that you could have dinner. If that felt objectionable, then it took a profound cognitive dissonance to then eat the meat you prepared -- and cooking until any hint of the taste of raw meat was masked was a good way to ease a troubled conscience.

And sure -- that had been Geoff once. But Geoff is above that now.

To deny what the meat is -- what it was -- is to do a great disservice to the animal that had died for your dinner. And so Geoff tends to cook their meals rare, tries to work with the taste and texture and shape of the meat rather than to mask it.

He flips the patties.

“Nice work,” Geoff says, stepping to the side and admiring the neatly-chopped vegetables and fruit, smiling and reaching a hand up to muss Michael’s hair. Michael just smiles and puffs out a sound of appreciation before taking a deep breath of the scent of the cooking meal.

“That smells amazing,” Michael says.

“Good,” Geoff says. “They’re almost ready to come off. Would you heat up a platter for me?”

\---

Since Ryan doesn’t deny that he might have bought a house -- or at least might have been in the process of closing on one -- Geoff keeps his eyes on property transactions in the _Register_ , acting casual as he turns to the same page every day over coffee and eggs in the morning.

Something stops him from simply asking.

But nothing comes through the transaction announcements with Ryan’s name on it.

Geoff decides he’s just being paranoid.

\---

Geoff should feel uneasy about this place. Frightened to be exploring somewhere unfamiliar in the dark, maybe.

And yet.

Now that he’s out of the car, Geoff is at ease.

Real or imagined, Decker -- and the thought of Decker, the threat -- has been following Geoff for weeks. He finds himself wondering when he’s at home whether or not the detective is outside. The sensation of skin crawling on his neck has become familiar, because every time Geoff leaves the house, he knows Decker’s eyes may be on him.

But not here.

There is only one road into the clearing -- and though the sounds of the flora and fauna surrounding the house are loud, Geoff would hear a vehicle long before he would see it. Decker is not here. The detective is not watching.

And so Geoff begins his own detective work.  

The gravel at the front of the house has been raked into neat patterns -- no tracks from a car, from a man. The noise of Geoff’s sneakers in the gravel joins the cacophony of the forest at night. The front door is metal, windowless, nondescript. Geoff uses the hem of his shirt, wrapping the doorknob to make sure he leaves no fingerprints -- not sure why he’s suddenly concerned with leaving evidence that he’s been to the home. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked.

There is no welcome mat on the small concrete slab in front of the door.

Geoff circles the perimeter of the home, shining his flashlight into windows cautiously at first. But all that shines back at him is the vision of heavy drapes pulled over each pane of glass on the inside. There will be no way to see inside the home without entering it. It only takes a minute to check every window, to try the back door too -- locked, too.

Then he grows bolder.

Geoff traces his same steps, trying to hoist up each window, thinking perhaps one will be open.

None are.

And as he begins to finish his second circle around the house, Geoff notices something odd. There are no fingerprints on _anything **.**_ No smudges near the window latches. No smears where someone’s knuckle caught against the glass while shutting those curtains.

There is nothing -- now that Geoff is paying attention -- to indicate that any human has ever entered the home, has ever existed anywhere near it. There is only clean raked gravel and spotless windows.

A sterile, impenetrable fortress.

\---

Geoff wakes naked to a mouth on him -- hands on him -- it is dark and he cannot remember falling asleep or undressing. The mouth is hot and wet and it drags itself across the bones of his shoulders, his chest, leaving a trail that is instantly cooled by the empty air. One hand is on Geoff’s cock and he is already hard.

“Ryan,” he says -- half question -- and Ryan hums into his skin in response.

Even as Geoff feels his cock throb against Ryan’s palm, his mind is fighting for sleep -- and the lingering feeling of unconsciousness is laying over Geoff like a hot, heavy comforter. Suffocating. Even as his body is stimulated, his mind pulls at him to sleep.

Ryan sucks marks into his skin, pinches Geoff with his teeth, and Geoff breathes deeply, letting the current of sleep take him wherever it wants.

\---

Geoff is desperate for something – some clue about the house and what it means. What its purpose is. The more sterile the place proves to be, the harder Geoff finds his heart beating, and he whirls to face the forest, the car.

He paces. He returns to his car, leaving the door open, fumbling for his phone. No missed calls. The "ding… ding… ding" of his car warning him that the headlights are on feels jarring in the otherwise natural soundtrack to the evening and Geoff cuts the headlights, plunging himself voluntarily into darkness.

And on a whim, he flicks off the flashlight in his hand.

Immediately his eyes begin to adjust -- _like an animal's,_ he thinks. Pupils flare wide in pale blue irises and Geoff exits the car again.

Like an animal. He is relying far too much on sight, he thinks and something grips him, tells him to return to the house one more time – to forget what he can and cannot see. Silently now he chooses each step carefully and he returns to the door.

The house is washed silver in the natural light as the pale disc of the moon slips silently overhead.

No fingerprints, no footprints. Geoff smells pinesap on the breeze, a fire somewhere far away -- or the remnants of a fire. And as he approaches the house… something else. Not human, not natural. Acrid and faint.

He runs a fingertip down the seam between door and doorframe – not worried anymore about leaving his mark here, too sure that the place belongs to Ryan, too sure that there is a secret within this structure tucked far away in Elgin -- and only now does he notice the millimeters-wide gap there, the soft feeling of movement as air is exchanged from inside the house to outside.

Without a hint of sheepishness, Geoff presses his face up to the door until the tip of his nose sits in the gap. He closes his eyes and clears himself of everything but senses. He gives a long exhale, counting to ten, and then he breathes deeply – to fill himself with oxygen and whatever smell might ride that oxygen into his consciousness.

Bleach.

\---

The eggs are the last step in the dish. Everything else is sizzling hot and waiting to be plated -- the ragout fragrant and steaming on the counter, the meat resting under a loose cover of tin foil.

Geoff scrapes the fond from the bottom of the meat pan and swirls olive oil to catch the savory pieces. He cracks three eggs carefully then in quick succession, watching the clear whites spread and then become opaque, waiting for the yolk to set just so.

The next moment will make or break the timing of the dish, and no matter how often Geoff has practiced flipping eggs, he never quite trusts himself not to rupture the yolk. It is a delicate operation, requiring accuracy and gentleness and swift motion. Hesitate and the egg will land wrong and the yolk will split, leak, erase all of the effort gone into cooking the egg so far. Move too fast and the egg faces the same fate.

Geoff steels himself as he slips the slotted spatula under one egg – and with great care, he flips it. Success.

The second egg lands intact, sizzling. One more. He holds his breath.

The third flops off of his spatula prematurely and Geoff yelps a little, involuntarily, dismayed – but still, the egg lands hard but does not break.

He rushes to plate the meal -- a large patty on each bone-white dinner plate, a large serving of sweet and savory ragout – and then straight from the pan, he lifts each delicate egg to slide it atop a serving of meat. Each egg, then, gets topped with three anchovies – set out across a chopping block and patted dry. Geoff lays the thin fish filets across the eggs in delicate patterns.

"You two ready in there?" he asks. In response, there is immediate movement from the living room. Ryan enters to retrieve silverware, to set the table. Michael refills his wine glass, retrieves Geoff's and fills that too, takes a third glass for Ryan from the shelf and then disappears into the dining room with glasses and wine balanced in his arms.

Geoff is deglazing the pan again, browning butter, sprinkling in fresh sage – and the final element, the savory and flavorful sauce, comes together quickly. Michael returns to help with dishes as Geoff is spooning the finishing touch across each egg.

\---

"I want you to fuck me, Geoff."

It's a rare request and Geoff gains several levels of consciousness as Ryan growls the words into his neck.

"You're sure?" Geoff asks, his voice thick and sleepy even to his own ears.

"Please, Geoff," Ryan says. "I need you. I'm ready for you."

And Geoff isn't sure how long they've been there on their sides, face to face in the dark, Ryan teasing him, moving in the bed – and now one of Geoff's hands find Ryan's naked hip, snakes behind Ryan. Hand meets hand, then, and Geoff can feel Ryan's large hand there against his ass, moving, working, and Geoff sucks a surprised breath at the realization that Ryan has been finger-fucking himself open for Geoff. Ryan buries his face into Geoff's neck.

"Oh Ryan," he sighs, stroking the back of Ryan's hand, letting his palm rest there and feeling Ryan move inside of himself. "You're too good to me."

Ryan moves fast then and with unexpected force. In one movement, he's up off of his side, straddling Geoff's hips, pushing Geoff down hard onto his back. Geoff just groans at the handling, at the feeling of being pressed down into the mattress, at the cleft of Ryan's ass against his cock and the weight of the larger man across his hips. He grasps at Ryan's thighs, raking fingertips up and through the light hair, up Ryan's hips, down his stomach.

And then Ryan's spine is curving as he pivots, reaching behind himself, and Geoff gasps as a warm and unseen hand slicks his cock, disappears, returns to coat him brusquely a second time, twisting up his length with a flourish over the head of his dick – and something about the intensity of the stimulation has Geoff feeling like he is sleeping again -- like as he sinks into the mattress, he is also sinking away from consciousness.

Ryan hitches his hips several inches up and forward and he makes the smallest sound as he grips Geoff and begins to sink backwards, down onto his cock. It's a vulnerable sound – almost hurt, almost a whimper – and it ignites something new in Geoff, even as he feels sleep lying heavy over him, even as Ryan works down onto him, hot and velvet.

Time is slow in the half dream. It is so rare for Ryan and Geoff to be alone like this – even rarer for Ryan to want Geoff like this – but is it just because Geoff rarely pushes it? Ryan pauses, letting all of his weight sink down onto Geoff but remaining upright, spine straight, balanced on his knees as they bottom out together, Ryan's erection bobbing a little before settling, laying warm across Geoff's stomach.

They breathe together. Ryan places a hand in the center of Geoff's chest.

\---

The junk mail continues.

And as is often the case, one random thought sparks a connection.

A round of bad storms rolls through Austin late one afternoon, almost stranding them all at work. The electricity flickers, and everyone starts backing up their work, saving things, trying to find a stopping place for their recordings.

Geoff magnanimously announces that they'll call it a day, but no one wants to head out into the sheets of pouring rain.

So everyone but Ray and Ryan starts to drink to pass the time. Jack disappears and returns with most of a bottle of Jack Daniels, "borrowed" probably from another office – and then Gavin and Michael and Jack and Geoff are tipping the liquor into mugs of ice and soda. Gavin convinces them all to take a straight swallow off the bottle, and Geoff feels the liquor quickly, blooming up warm from the pit of his stomach.

Geoff rolls backwards in his desk chair, propping his feet up and bringing up the weather app on his phone, trying to predict how long they have until it'll slack off enough to leave. Severe thunderstorm warning until 7 p.m. for Travis and Bastrop Counties.

Geoff so often thinks about Austin and the surrounding suburbs as being one region – but in reality, Austin is part of Travis County – close on the border of Bastrop to the east. If Ryan has purchased property in Bastrop, the transaction wouldn't have come through on the _Austin Register_. That newspaper only printed records for Travis – and another paper would likely have the transaction record rights for Bastrop.

It's easy enough to excuse himself from the Achievement Hunter office, striding down the halls, not looking up from his phone because he doesn't want to be dragged into a conversation now.

Gus is gone for the day, and Geoff ducks into his office. He shuts the blinds and sinks down onto the couch, peering at the phone – the rectangle of light swimming a little as his body continues to process the alcohol.

It's easy to find the newspaper that publishes the legal records for Bastrop, but it takes longer to find their e-edition, to bring it up on his phone. Geoff tries to think back to the first piece of mail that had come through for Ryan and then adds a few weeks on top of that – it would've taken that long to close the deal on something.

He starts at two weeks out from the suspected first date, scrolling through the records, scanning for "Haywood" in Wyldwood, in Smithville, in Elgin.

And then he has it.

Four weeks from the first time Ryan received a garish postcard claiming to offer him a better mortgage rate, the _Bastrop Record_ lists Ryan's name, an Elgin address, and a price of $43,600.

\---

"Land, air, and sea," Ryan says after the first bite. "I'm impressed, Geoff."

"It's good?" Geoff asks, needy for praise on the only thing he provides for the three of them now: cooking.

"It's fucking delicious," Michael says through a full mouth. "Gotta admit I was skeptical about anchovies on eggs but damn man."

"Honestly Michael, you should know to trust Geoff by now," Ryan says, spearing a tender chunk of turnip with his fork and then carefully selecting a piece of pear to add to the bite.

Only after he's watched Ryan and Michael enjoy several bites does Geoff begin to tackle what's on his own plate. He wants to savor every element of the meal and so he goes slowly – eyes on his plate as he sinks the tines of his fork lengthwise into the medium egg, piercing the yolk, cutting the tender patty of meat beneath. The yolk hemorrhages, the thick and savory contents rushing out and following the path of the fork to coat the rare meat underneath before pooling on the plate – a dark yellow against perfect, smooth white.

The first bite is complicated and flavorful – every scent from cooking the meal returning now to Geoff's palate as his brain makes sense of the creamy yolk, the unmistakable flavors of browned butter and sage, the unusual texture of anchovy, uneven and furred with near-invisible bones, the slight bite and grit of salt and pepper – and finally beneath it all, the familiar and almost comforting flavor of the meat itself – firm and uniform and warm.

It is perfect and complex. A beautifully balanced dish. _Leave it to the French,_ Geoff thinks.

\---

Something has changed for Geoff and he comes to realize it gradually, finds himself thinking about it in idle moments alone or times when the conversation simply does not interest him and he drifts in thought.

He's struck by how lucky he is, by how little he deserves Ryan and Michael.

Because when his memory had started to betray him, when the nightmares had broken him so utterly that he couldn't parse through a real memory or an imagined one, Geoff had begun to rely on Ryan and Michael as his tethers to reality.

To experience life as a human is to spend a span of years observing the world locked in your own head, filtering experiences through a consciousness that – Geoff had recently learned – was not always a reliable source of information.

And so Geoff is lucky – impossibly lucky – to be able to place his trust in these two men.

If that filter had failed Geoff when he was alone, then what? He would've buckled under the pressure, the paranoia, the constant suspicion that his consciousness was failing him and that the things he experienced and remembered could just as easily be fantasy as reality. A fever dream.

But Ryan and Michael are there – mooring him, placing him in reality, helping him parse through fabrications and real experiences gently, with infinite patience. Without them, he would be crippled and afraid; with them, he is confident and a better man than he was before.

\---

Geoff has almost forgotten what it felt like to have sex with just one person and no audience – and he would ask where Michael is but he trusts that Ryan would not have come to him tonight, would not have fucked himself open for Geoff unless Michael was somewhere that made sense, safe and happy and not feeling wronged in his omission from the session between Geoff and Ryan.

It is a different connection like this, Ryan breathing hard as he builds a fast rhythm on top of Geoff. Just one person to account for, to keep track of, to please – and as Ryan pulls back from a deep kiss, Geoff can only just now catch the other man's eyes. Ryan holds his gaze for a moment, smiling and open.

 _There is nothing like this,_ Geoff thinks, something his chest swelling impossibly. _God, there is nothing like Ryan._

Ryan rocks himself down hard onto Geoff's cock and Geoff knows that Ryan is hitting his prostate just right by the way Ryan's voice goes high and broken, by the way that the cock in Geoff's hand throbs hard at the bottom of every down stroke.

Ryan doesn't bother to warn Geoff that he's reaching orgasm – he knows that Geoff knows – and he doesn't hold back then as he fucks down onto Geoff, as he fucks forward into Geoff's palm, as he cums onto Geoff in an impressive and unexpected arc, and Geoff feels Ryan's release as it lands, hot against his chest, on the front of his throat – and Ryan continues rocking even then, neither of them speaking because there is no need – Ryan's body squeezing around Geoff, ushering Geoff towards his own orgasm.

And there is a shared bliss here – the vulnerability, the give and take. Maybe Geoff had never understood it before tonight. His mind, his ego – they had been practically obliterated by stress, by the nightmares and constant fear and complete inability to be alone.

Never before had Geoff been afraid to be alone. Not growing up as an only child. Not in the Army.

There were those borders – those important boundaries that separated the self from the other, and within those boundaries Geoff had always been whole, even when he'd felt broken. He only knew how to be whole -- and to give any part of himself away completely meant to risk losing that part of himself forever.

But tonight as Geoff skirts the edges of waking life and dreams, as he lets himself be ridden, as he cums hard into Ryan's bucking body, Geoff realizes that he will never again be whole without Ryan and Michael.

Some piece of him is gone – and the thought should frighten him but it does not. He's given it, after all, to the two other lives who he trusts more than he trusts even himself now.

What better hands for him to be in?

 

\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- 

 

Geoff hadn't realized how much their supply of meat has dwindled until he reaches deep into the freezer for stew meat and finds… nothing.

There are a few filets left – carefully wrapped and sealed and marked with a date and the name of the cut on the outside of the bag – but that's it.

And with a start, Geoff realizes that he feels almost _panicked_ at the discovery.

He texts Ryan.

>>Geoff: Could you pick up one or two lbs of stew meat on your way home?

The reply comes quickly.

>>Ryan: Sure thing! Guess we're out?

>>Geoff: Yeah, finally made our way through what we have.

>>Ryan: Lame. Be home in an hour.

\---

Everything about the meal that night is disappointing, from the act of cooking to the food itself.

It's been so long since Geoff has handled raw beef that he's disgusted when he unwraps the package Ryan produces from the store.

Despite the fact that the meat is a bright, deep red, it smells bloodless and sanitized – the scent reminding Geoff vaguely of a freshly-cleaned public bathroom – a thing that you know is sterile but still fills you with a slight distaste.

 _It'll be better once it's cooked,_ Geoff tells himself.

This isn't the case.

The meat goes thready and dry, even as it's coated in the thick broth of the stew.

It tastes like nothing. Artificial and the wrong color and the wrong density and as Geoff's jaws pulverize some of the meat and he forces himself to swallow the first bite, he wonders to himself what life was like for the cow he is eating, how long it had been dead, how many hands had touched its meat before Geoff did, and whether or not anyone involved in the chain of production had cared about the meal that the cow would eventually become, the people who would sit in front of the plates tonight trying to choke down the flavorless dish.

Michael and Ryan are attempting to be polite. He can tell.

"This is…" Michael begins.

"It's awful," Geoff says, interrupting. "This beef is terrible. You've spoiled me."

He expects them to reassure him, to lie to him and say that it's wonderful and flavorful and savory – but they do not.

The cow had known a factory farm and it had known a slaughterhouse and it had been anonymous its entire life and now it was a lifeless _product_ that none of them enjoyed consuming. Too far removed from life to be anything Geoff could bring himself to call "meat."

It is a profound difference. And Geoff has held back from talking about the hunts, from thinking about any of it – has buried the memory of the patches of blood in Michael's hair, of the two of them reeking of viscera, eyes wild and strange, of the perverse statements the detective had flung at Geoff that day. Geoff's paranoia was misplaced and he knows that now – irrefutable and stark.

"You have to go hunting soon," Geoff says.

Michael and Ryan do not look at each other but something in the air is buzzing now.

Michael is flushing a deep red, the blush blossoming up from the collar of his sweater.

Ryan nods and a smile pulls at his lips.

\---

They waste no time planning the hunt. The three of them compare calendars right after dinner -- but the sleeping pill is already kicking in for Geoff and he lets himself drift as the chemicals unfurl into him, the two familiar voices sounding far away.

It registers somewhere in the back of Geoff's mind that they will hunt this weekend as he slowly pieces together the snippets of conversation that he's able to catch, even half-asleep.

In three days they will leave and they will return bloody and reeking -- and their lives -- their meals -- will go back to normal.

\---

Geoff has a nightmare that night. When he wakes from sleeping, though, he knows just where he is. And he calms himself. Michael and Ryan do not rouse from their sleep.

Geoff forgets the details. He forgets the dream.

\---

On Friday – the last day before the hunt – Geoff is in line with Michael for sandwiches when the skin at the back of his neck begins to crawl.

Geoff fights the sensation, fights the shivering chill that rolls through his body – until finally it is almost painful and he turns to throw a look over his shoulder, to assure himself that there is nothing dangerous behind him.

But he is wrong.

Behind them, there's a young couple in line -- and behind the strangers waits Det. Decker. Broad shoulders. Dark suit. Close-cropped dark hair. _Damn him_. His eyes bore into Geoff's and his expression does not change when Geoff sees him. The man's mouth is pressed into a tight line.

Geoff is furious and he is scared and his body moves without thinking. He grips Michael tight by the upper arm, wrenching him too hard by accident as he takes them out of the sandwich line and towards the back exit of the shop.

"The fuck?" Michael asks, bristling immediately at the rough treatment.

"We have to go," Geoff says. He will not let Decker speak to Michael. Geoff doesn't know what he's doing but his body has pushed Michael forward, putting himself in between Michael and the detective like a shield. "Go on."

Something passes between them beyond trust. Michael does as he's told. They stride out the back door and then Geoff has Michael by the arm again, guiding him quickly to the car.

When they are inside, when the engine is alive and the doors are locked and Michael guides them out of the parking lot, Geoff says, "Let's go to Rico's instead. Are you in the mood for barbeque?"

Michael just nods.

He doesn't frown. He poses no questions.

Michael drives them to Rico's, and over twin platters of chicken and buttered toast they laugh with the sort of unhinged relief of two people who have just come close to something dangerous and survived.

\---

Geoff doesn't know why but on Friday night, he does not take a sleeping pill. His body feels tired and his mind feels at rest and he does not need the pill, he decides.

He's a little restless that night, but as Michael and Ryan fall into deep, even breaths on either side of him in the bed, Geoff slips slowly towards unconsciousness.

He does not dream, and when he wakes up the next morning, Geoff feels validated in the decision.

He is cured of the nightmares, and he's come out on the other side of that awful crucible better for it with a stronger mind, a stronger relationship. The pills had served their purpose.

\---

The three of them are buoyant as Geoff loads Michael and Ryan down with supplies, presses cups of coffee into their hands. He watches as, for the first time, he sees Michael and Ryan handling the supplies they use to hunt.

Ryan produces a dramatically curved blade with a heavy wooden handle. In another lifetime, Geoff would've found the tool cruel-looking, weapon-like, distasteful and upsetting. But as he watches Ryan wield the tool today, he understands perfectly what it is for, knows that it is the blade's very efficiency that makes it humane and useful.

He's never risen with them before a hunt before but today he could not stop himself and he is glad he got up, glad to see them happy and at ease and packing and preparing -- and he squeezes each man's hand fondly before they leave.

"Don't come back empty-handed," Geoff teases.

"Absolutely not," Ryan says seriously.

And just like that, they are gone.

\---

They're gone three hours before Geoff can put words to the strange feeling he's had since they disappeared down the street.

He doesn't miss them. He is not frightened to be alone. He is not worried.

He wishes, Geoff realizes, that he could have been included. That this time he would've gone with them.

Geoff wants to feel useful -- and though he isn't sure what he could add to their efforts, he knows that he wants to contribute.

\---

Geoff tries to busy himself and finds that he cannot concentrate on anything. He is becoming more and more irritated, more restless.

He tries to eat -- fixes a sandwich for himself in the late afternoon -- and finds himself immediately sick to his stomach, his head pounding and his stomach threatening to turn and empty its contents. He feels dizzy and unsettled and he forces himself down onto the couch to nap.

Geoff will be more himself, he reasons, when he wakes up.

\---

But the nap only serves to further unmoor him from reality and he wakes in the dark -- disoriented at first, not sure why he's finding himself on the couch instead of in bed, not sure at first why he is alone in a pitch-dark house. But it comes to him: the hunt, the food, the nap.

He lays in the dark and something knocks itself loose in his subconscious mind. The dream -- the nightmare from earlier in the week, so unlike the nightmares from before.

Geoff cannot remember every piece of it, and the scenes come to him odd and lacking a narrative to help him make sense of the vague impressions. A forest. The house in Elgin. Ryan and Michael hurt. Someone has hurt them in the nightmare -- and Geoff remembers then the panic he had felt, the utter despair.

And once he feels it -- once Geoff revisits the dream that has surfaced again -- he cannot press the feeling down. What if they do get hurt? Who will find them? Who can help them -- who even knows where they might be but Geoff?

The possibility feels too real there in the dark, in the timeless confusion. Geoff's hands find his phone and it's past 8 p.m.

There's no chance he'll be able to sleep at a reasonable hour -- and he's doubtful now that he'll be able to sleep at all until he lays eyes on Michael and Ryan, whole and unharmed. Is he willing to wait until sunrise, to take the chance that they are already hurt somewhere?

Geoff decides to go for a drive, and he heads east towards Elgin.

\---

It's a pleasant night and crisp.

At first Geoff parks his car in front of the house and moves to sit on the front stoop -- but after staring at the sedan for five minutes, he realizes that he doesn't like how exposed it makes him feel. If someone were to drive up -- Decker, anyone -- they would see Geoff's car immediately. Know he's there.

And so Geoff gets back in. Guides the car to sit in the meadow behind the house. All that's left is to decide where he'll place himself as he waits.

\--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- 

Christ, it feels good to be out with Ryan again.

The two of them work together like two musicians playing an improvised duet, Michael thinks -- and it feels incredible to have Ryan at his side, to know just what to do at every moment, as if the other man is an extension of himself.

It's the way he feels with Geoff sometimes in the kitchen, but multiplied out to be exponentially stronger until Michael finds himself washed with euphoria and laughing in the passenger seat beside Ryan as they barrel down the gravel road towards the little house in Elgin.

"We'll start with the tall one," Ryan offers, and Michael doesn't have to look at him to know that he's smiling wide. There's a noise in response from the back seat of the SUV and Michael snorts. No, they would not be coming home empty handed in the morning.

And no, they hadn't planned on ending up with two men that night -- but the second one had surprised them when they already had the first one subdued. He had seen their faces and he had been shocked and Ryan had taken him down easily. Two targets was against the rules that Ryan had set out for them -- too risky, too many loose ends to account for -- but tonight they had two out of self-preservation and Michael can't help but to feel happy that things had panned out this way. Ryan worries too much.

Together, Michael and Ryan had loaded both unconscious men into the back, laughing because they had already discussed taking more than usual but never guessing that they'd suddenly double the harvest in one night.

Michael plays the scene through in his mind of their return tomorrow: how Geoff would smile to see them, how Ryan would reveal with a great flourish that they had twice as much meat as usual.

He feels a slight regret that Geoff can't share this part of it yet -- can't understand the many layers of enjoyment they get from the hunt, the butchering, cooking, the shared meals and memories.

 _Soon_ , Ryan has promised him. _Geoff has to arrive to it on his own._ And Michael trusts Ryan, agrees with him. He just hopes Geoff hurries up.

\---

When they arrive in Ryan's SUV, they cut the lights immediately and Geoff strides forward to meet them.

Michael launches out of the vehicle before they notice Geoff and Geoff watches him as he walks forward -– the passenger side of the SUV facing Geoff. Michael pulls open the back door and a dim dome light illuminates the interior of the SUV. There are other people with them. In the back seat. Geoff freezes. He hadn't planned on this, but in some deep part of himself, he cannot bring himself to be surprised.

Geoff watches Michael step up and lean over one of the figures in the back of the car, one arm inside the back seat and one arm propping himself against the SUV's roof.

Ryan joins Michael quickly, stepping behind him.

"He's fucking dead, Ryan," Michael says in an excited voice. He turns to face Ryan, and Geoff cannot see what expression must be on his face. "He fucking died! Well that was easy."

Geoff's heart is hammering and every muscle in his body quivers so hard that Geoff feels like he's vibrating, almost floating.

"Let's get them both into the house," Ryan says. He sounds like he's smiling. Ryan retrieves something from the pocket of his jacket, works with it in front of his body. There is a noise from the back seat.

It occurs to Geoff with great clarity that whatever unlikely situation the two men have gotten themselves into tonight, Geoff is a part of it now. He won't hide from them. And so he resumes the path towards them.

\---

Michael unlocks the door and kicks it open softly, turning then the join Ryan at the car.

He runs instead into a figure that is at once shocking and familiar -- the man clad casually in a plaid shirt, in jeans.

"Geoff?" Michael says, peering stupidly into the other man's face.

"Michael –-" he says gently, his eyebrows knit with worry -- but then Ryan is behind him, looming, pressing a washcloth damp with chemicals over the bottom half of Geoff's face in a move that is practiced and effortless, wrapping an arm around Geoff's torso as Geoff's eyes go wide with panic, as he begins to struggle, to topple backwards into Ryan -- and Michael feels nothing but happy to see him, even as Geoff thrashes -- and Michael begins to talk quickly to the man in a smooth, affectionate voice, reaching a hand out to stroke Geoff's arm through his shirt, holding a palm over Geoff's heart.

"Hey Geoff -- you're ok -- just relax ok? We got you," Michael says. "Boy, we're glad you finally made it."


	6. Blood & Bile

“I know this isn’t comfortable. We didn’t have anything softer to restrain you.”

Geoff’s chest aches and his head swims. He’s being supported in an odd way, pulled and propped at the same time. His mind feel muted and soft. Had he fallen asleep in an awful position?

But no, that doesn’t account for how much his arms hurt, how he feels pinned and—

Had be been in a car crash? It’s so hard to make sense of what’s going on, like being in a dream and trying to wake up.

“Open your eyes.”

It’s Michael. His voice is close, and in a moment Geoff feels Michael’s fingers against his scalp, stroking through his hair. “Come on. Wake up, boss.”

Michael kisses him and his mouth is sweet and clean. Geoff can smell the sweat on his scalp, and something else—something heady. Michael draws back, humming.

“We weren’t expecting you so soon or we would’ve gotten something better set up for you,” Ryan says. It’s the same syrup-thick voice he uses when they’re in bed. “But then, you always did exceed our expectations.”

There are so many scents in the room—Ryan and Michael, but other things. Waste and blood and bleach. Burning rubber. Finally, he opens his eyes.

Michael is close to his face. Geoff could count his freckles if he wanted to. He looks young and serene. Michael steps back.

They’re in the house—of course they are. Everything is lit in a way that doesn’t make sense, a sterile white-blue glow that throws jagged shadows upward. He looks around and the room is empty except for two stark work lights, propped on the floor. A set of familiar hands trace up and down his arms, and Geoff realizes that he is tied to a chair in several places, his arms wrenched behind his back and his wrists bound together. He struggles against the bindings.

“We’ll untie you in one minute, ok?” Michael says, his voice soothing.

Ryan steps into view. It’s like seeing a different man than the one Geoff knows. His white smile is a gash across his face, toothy and somehow dangerous, radiating a manic energy that Geoff has never known him to have before that moment. His hair is dark and straight with sweat, falling across his forehead, and he has a dark smear on one cheek.

Blood.

Michael sidles up to Ryan, looping an arm around his waist and standing hip to hip.

Geoff knows in that moment that he should be scared.

He is not.

His heart beats slow and steady and his breaths come easy. The pieces of the world are falling back into place, and things he didn’t realize were missing reveal themselves. He is in the house in Elgin, the secret house where Ryan and Michael spend their weekends. He is with the people he loves. They will take care of him—he has nothing to fear.

The burning rubber smell grows more intense and Geoff wonders if something is on fire somewhere, if this is part of what they do here, too.

“I imagine you have some questions for us,” Ryan says. There’s a laugh somewhere in his voice, a deep amusement. They wait expectantly for Geoff to speak.

He sees them as if for the first time, the two men standing casually, waiting to explain everything that Geoff already knows.

A knife glints at Michael’s waist. Something thumps in a room to their left and there is a muffled moan.

Ryan and Michael are showing him who they are. There’s no barrier between them in that moment, and though Geoff is tied to a hard chair, though the rope is cutting into his skin and his chest aches from being wrenched in a strange way and his head feels sick from the smell of burning, Geoff realizes that he has never felt closer to them than he does in that moment.

This is truth. This is intimacy beyond anything he imagined he could ever have. Everything between them has been stripped away.

They are special— _he_ is special. There is no one in the world like Ryan and Michael, and there is no one who could give him a gift quite like this.

The moment is so profound that it borders on religious.

“Nothing?” Ryan asks, breaking his reverie. Ryan puffs a laugh through his nose and offers out his hands. “There’s nothing you want to know?”

When Geoff finally speaks, his voice is gravelly and his throat seared raw. “What’s burning?”

“Burning?” Ryan asks. He looks to Michael, uncertain.

A sick feeling starts in the bottom of Geoff’s belly and rises like bile.

“You don’t… smell that?”

The world goes black again.

\--- --- ---

“What’s wrong with him?”

Geoff’s jaw clenches and his eyes cast at a strange angle as spasms wrack his body. He makes helpless little sounds that ignite something like panic in Michael’s belly.

Ryan moves to Geoff’s side immediately, drawing a knife and kneeling behind him to cut his bindings.

“Help me with him,” Ryan says in that calm way he has, even when the world seems to be falling apart behind them, even when it looks like they’re finally about to get caught, when one of _them_ is about to get away.

Michael joins him, hooking Geoff under the arm and gently lifting him from the chair, following Ryan’s lead to lower Geoff to the floor.

“Protect his head,” Ryan says. “Gentle—let him move.” Michael cups his skull even as Geoff thrashes, making sure the violent movements don’t thump his head against the unforgiving concrete floor. Ryan strips off his own shirt, rolls it, and slips it under Geoff’s temple.

Michael’s heart thuds uncontrollably in his chest. They’d killed a man that night and it hadn’t fazed him—yet here he is, the room full up with the sounds of Geoff’s pathetic struggling, rhythmic whimpering, Michael on the verge of tears. “What’s happening?”

“He’s having a seizure,” Ryan says, his voice still cool, untouched by fear or panic.

“What the hell?”

Geoff had never said anything to either of them about having seizures. It’s terrifying to see him weather the attack, his body twisted cruelly.

“I bet didn’t take a pill last night,” Ryan says, shaking his head. He strokes a hand through Geoff’s hair, trying to steady him but not interfering with his movements. “You can’t just stop taking them like that.”

“Is he gonna be okay? Can he hear us?”

“He’s effectively unconscious. He should be fine once it passes—maybe a little nauseated.”

There’s a noise at their backs and before they can turn, Ryan is crashing forward, falling across Geoff. The world explodes in chaos.

It’s the taller man, and when Michael turns, he sees that the man has managed to wrench a pipe from the house’s plumbing. How the hell had he gotten loose? Everything happens quickly, but Michael and Ryan have practiced fast thinking in violent situations often enough that Michael is able to bite down his fear.

Ryan recovers, roaring in pain and anger, and Michael realizes Ryan doesn’t even have a weapon on him. The man swings the pipe again, catching Ryan high on the face. The blow only barely slows Ryan down and he backs the man up, pushes him, the two of them fighting for control of the pipe. Ryan overpowers him momentarily, moving the pipe until he’s holding it laterally across the man’s throat, shaking as he presses it against his neck, presses him against the wall.

Michael is there in an instant. The rule is not to bleed them outside of the room where they do their butchering, but they’ve never dealt with a situation quite like this. No one had ever gotten loose before.

Michael thinks fast through all the different ways that Ryan has taught him to incapacitate their prey. Most of the man’s body is blocked by Ryan’s bulk, and Ryan is pushing him, jolting him, trying to force the man’s head against the wall, to stun him. The man fights back with a terrible strength and Ryan’s shoes slip over the concrete.

Michael moves in and his curved blade finds the back of the man’s knee, cutting first through thick denim fabric to expose his skin and then a second time to saw against his hamstrings, crippling him. The blood flow is immediate and within seconds both men are slipping in the pool of it.

Maybe he’d miscalculated, Michael realizes.

The injury seems to give the man a second wind and he pushes with all of his might off of the wall, sending Ryan crashing over Michael’s back. Ryan falls hard to his back on the floor and Michael can hear the audible push through the air as Ryan gets the wind knocked out of him.

The man scrambles, limps out of the room, and Michael realizes he doesn’t know whether or not they locked the doors from the inside as they came in.

Geoff had thrown them off—the routine they’d established so meticulously had been abandoned.

Michael and Ryan untangle themselves, and Michael sees with a jolt that Ryan is bleeding hard, can’t see from where but dark blood is actively flowing down his face.

“You’re hurt—” he says stupidly.

Ryan stands, unsteady on his feet—and then more noise from the room down the hall. The second victim appears, shuffling and limping past the doorway, his hands still bound.

_I thought he was goddamn dead._

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Stay with Geoff,” Ryan says.

“You’re bleeding—you can’t take two of them on at once, Ryan.”

“They won’t get far.”

“Fuck that—”

“Michael,” Ryan says, cautioning. He knows exactly what tone to use, and Michael’s chest floods with loyalty, obedience, trust. Ryan will handle this. He always has.

Ryan looks strong and perfect in the eerie light, blood streaming across his bare chest, his eyes calculating and cold.

Still, as Michael watches Ryan limp after their victims, he can’t help the stab of fear that courses through him. This situation is new.

\--- --- ---

When Geoff comes back to himself, he can’t stop moving, and he realizes that he’s on the cold concrete floor, his bindings removed. Michael is kneeling over him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he says, soothing, stroking a hand down Geoff’s arm. Geoff can smell fresh blood in the room.

He can smell gore—not in the room they’re in, but nearby—and even as Geoff’s stomach turns at the acrid scent of bile and terror-sweat, he smells blood and meat beneath it all. Against his will, it makes him feel comforted, drags him viscerally back to the warm house in Austin where they love each other and are safe, where they provide for each other and no one can touch them.

He’s comforted and revolted and his mind swims, unmooored.

He can’t stop his muscles from seizing up, shaking, and he feels like he’s going to vomit from the strain of it.

“Hey, you had a seizure but you’re okay,” Michael says, putting a warm hand on the back of his neck. He smears something hot and wet there, immediately tacky on Geoff’s skin. “Come back to me now, Geoff.”

The involuntary movements taper off, and Geoff realizes there’s worry in Michael’s voice.

“Where’s Ryan?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“He’s hurt. Our guys got out,” Michael says, rolling Geoff to his back and helping him to sit up. The blood rushing through his ears sounds like rapids in a canyon.

Ryan is hurt and alone.

“ _Guys_? Both?”

Michael nods gravely.

“We need to—fuck, Michael, we need—”

“I know,” Michael says, shaking his head. “But he told me to stay here with you.”

“I’m fine,” Geoff says, pushing to his feet. He feels terrible, but he can walk. _He can help._

They have to find Ryan. There’s no other option that makes sense.

Geoff follows the path of blood down the hallway to an empty kitchen with an open door. He steps through, into the darkness, and Michael is behind him.

There are two figures in the distance, cutting through the meadow. Neither of them is Ryan. Both of the men are getting away.

“We stop them first, then find Ryan,” Geoff says, turning to Michael. Michael gives him a curt nod. Adrenaline courses through him, overcoming the sick feeling in his stomach and the pounding in his head.

Geoff gestures to the smaller figure. “You think you can take that?”

“You got it.”

And then they’re off. Michael cuts quickly and silently through the high grass, and after a moment, Geoff scrambles down the stairs, barrelling after the taller man.

The man is limping badly, his shoulders bobbing as he drags a mostly-useless leg behind him, trying desperately to make it to the edge of the forest, the pitch black cover of thick trees past the clearing. Geoff doesn’t feel his feet beneath him, doesn’t feel his own body as he reaches the man, grabbing him hard by the back of the shirt to pull him down.

The man is strong—and maybe he’d heard Geoff coming—because he pivots, spinning to face Geoff and not falling. He swipes through the air with a pipe Geoff hadn’t seen and Geoff only barely avoids getting brained.

He takes a step back, out of the man’s reach, trying to evaluate the best way to take him down. Geoff needs to go straight for that injured leg and--

“Ramsey, you fucker,” the man says, his voice ragged and high with disbelief.

Shocked, Geoff peers into his face. “ _Decker?_ ”

“You _fucker,_ ” he repeats, swinging through the air so hard that he almost throws himself off balance. He moans as his weight comes down on his injured leg.

“You fucked up,” Geoff says, and he realizes he’s smiling—about to _laugh_. He is _elated_ to realize who it is. This is no innocent bystander. This is the man who tried to take everything from them.  “God, you fucked up _bad_.”

It all comes together in that moment: the detective had been tailing Michael and Ryan. He must have been off duty, since he’s wearing a t-shirt instead of his customary suit.

“You couldn’t stay away from them, could you?” Geoff asks, taking a step forward and easily dodging the pipe.

Decker must have tried to intervene when Ryan and Michael had made off with their victim for the night.

“You should’ve called backup,” Geoff says.

He wonders how Ryan had gotten the gun away from Decker. He feels more impressed than he should’ve been in that moment.

“You fucked up so bad,” Geoff says, shaking his head.

“Go to hell, Ramsey,” Decker says through gritted teeth. He lets out a pitiful moan, high and breathy, and it ignites something in Geoff—some piece of himself that he never knew existed.

“Send me there,” Geoff taunts, stepping forward and inviting the next swing. The detective puts all of his might into it, swinging with both hands, and Geoff rushes him in that moment, ducking under the pipe, plowing into his ruined leg and taking him to the ground. Decker drops the pipe and scrambles to fight him, but it’s useless.

Geoff knows the exact position he wants and he gets there easily, climbing to Decker’s back where he wraps one arm around the man’s throat, cradling it in the crook of his elbow and then wrenching the choke closed with his other arm.

 _If you compress both arteries, it will only take a handful of seconds to render unconsciousness._  
  
Geoff pulls the choke tight and Decker draws great, whistling breaths through a gaping mouth.

_The windpipe is cushioned in the crook of the elbow as you flex and constrict, conserving your own energy._

He claws at Geoff’s naked arms, drawing blood, tearing his skin. Geoff doesn’t feel the tiny hurts. On the contrary, his senses are consumed with the moment, the big flailing body underneath him, the acrid smell of Decker’s breath mixing with the odor of his scalp, his aftershave. He is exhilarated. He is winning. He is invincible.

“Ramsey,” Decker manages in a strangled voice. “Please.”

“You could’ve left us alone,” Geoff growls, pulling the choke tighter.

_In the right state of mind, they’ll feel euphoric..._

Decker slows, gasps, and goes gradually limp under Geoff. His bucking ceases.

The detective’s body is warm and pliant under him as Geoff holds the choke longer, not taking any chances, holding his vice grip against the oxygen that could save him. His adrenaline begins to taper off—not to exhaustion but to an odd contentment—and something pleasant blossoms in his chest, as if the moment were _erotic_ in its rawness, in bringing an absolute end to Decker, to the threat against his family, the people he loves.

There’s a sound behind him, and rather than let go, Geoff rolls to his back, dragging the other man on top of him. It’s Ryan, shirtless and bleeding badly as he limped towards them.

He’s relieved to see him. Ryan is injured but he’s okay. He’ll be okay—thanks to Geoff and Michael.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see someone,” Ryan says. His smooth voice is incongruent, emerging from his battered face and Geoff flushes with affection, with love for the other man. “I think you can let him go, Geoff.”

Geoff lets his grip go slack and Ryan stoops to help roll Decker away. By the time Geoff rights himself, sitting in the tall grass, Michael is trotting up. Geoff turns to dig the wallet out of Decker’s pocket. He flips it open to reveal the detective shield, glinting in the moonlight, and tosses it up to Ryan.

Ryan catches it, looks at the thing, and lets out a low whistle.

“You boys bagged yourself a cop,” Geoff says, trying to catch his breath.

“You know, I wondered about the gun,” Ryan says, his mouth curled in a smile. “But I thought, you know, we _are_ in Texas.”

\--- --- ---

Geoff helps them move both men back to the house, and finally he sees the room that he had _smelled_ so vividly before. It’s draped in plastic and suddenly the night feels much more real than it had a moment before.

This is the reality of what they’ve been doing for _months_.

Geoff knows he should feel ill, should be doubled over, shaking and vomiting.

But there between Michael and Ryan, he only feels enormously tired.

The adrenaline dump is through and he realizes his legs are trembling.

“Is there anywhere I can sit down?” he asks, feeling pathetic. Ryan and Michael support him, walking him out to a mostly blank living room with a couch. They speak a few soothing words to him, but he barely hears what they say. Exhaustion overcomes him and he falls into a sleep that is deep and dreamless.

\--- --- ---

“He’s taking this… _really_ well,” Michael says. They’ve moved back into the room with plastic, away from Geoff, trying to decide what they’ll do from there. They’re all exhausted, and the thought of prepping and butchering that night is overwhelming.

“You knew he would,” Ryan says gently. He catches Michael by the back of the neck, drawing him into a gentle kiss.

“It was hard to trust,” Michael admits when they break.

“I never doubted him,” Ryan says, his voice warm—and it’s clear that he’s proud of Geoff in that moment. Michael feels a throb of jealousy.

This had been _theirs_ , just the two of them, and even though Michael always knew the perfect endgame had been for Geoff to be there with them, he can’t help but mourn the fact that their adventures alone together have officially come to an end.

“Just like I never doubted _you,_ ” Ryan continues, still holding him close, as if he can read Michael’s mind. He pushes Michael’s matted curls away from his forehead and smiles. “You were the first for a reason. Don’t forget it.”

Michael nods, pleased with the affection.

“Why don’t you take the first shower?” Ryan suggests.

\--- --- ---

Geoff wakes to Michael over him for the third time that evening.

“C’mon,” Michael says. “Ryan wants you in the other room. You okay?”

Geoff nods, let himself be helped up off the couch and down the hallway. He can hear water running somewhere, and after a moment they round the corner into a big bathroom with a deep tub where Ryan is waiting, running water into the bath.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but both of them have cleaned up and changed clothes since the last time Geoff saw them. Ryan hasn’t been as injured as he’d originally appeared. Once the blood is off of his face, Geoff can see there is only a small gash above his eyebrow. He’d bled a lot, but it hadn’t been dangerous.

Relief floods his chest. Ryan is okay.

Ryan undresses him slowly and carefully, helping Geoff steady himself and pulling the garments off of him before holding them out to Michael. Michael accepts each piece of Geoff’s clothing, putting them carefully into a black trash bag. Geoff doesn’t bother asking questions. Of course they would have to destroy his clothes. Of course they would have something new for him to put on.

“Let’s get you in,” Ryan says, guiding him towards the tub and supporting his weight until Geoff is fully seated in the warm water. Ryan has a washcloth and a fresh bar of soap, and only then does Geoff notice how much blood has dried on him.

 _Decker’s blood_ , he realizes.

Ryan dips the cloth into the water, soaps it, and begins to work gently at the spots on Geoff’s skin where blood has clotted. The hot water stings the scratches the detective left across his arms, and Ryan goes to work on those next.

Michael sits on the lid of the closed toilet, leaning back casually as if it weren’t unusual to see his boyfriends bathing each other, washing off blood until the bathwater is tinged pink.

“I’ll give you another chance, because of what happened last time,” Ryan says, smiling. “Do you have questions for us?”

“The seizure,” Geoff says. “Did I…? What happened?”

“It’s not gaba I’ve been giving you,” Ryan says, frowning. Geoff doesn’t understand what that has to do with him getting sick.

“I know you haven’t,” Geoff says, shocking himself with the admission. He _had_ known, but he’d never let himself think about the fact. “But it worked. So I didn’t care.”

Ryan nods. “It looks like you missed a dose. That’s why you had a seizure. I should’ve told you what you were really on, or at least warned you about stopping suddenly.”

So that had been the burned rubber smell, explained how he’d felt so sick all afternoon. It hadn’t just been the anxiety and stress of being separated from them.

“You’re through the worst of it now, so if you don’t want to take them anymore, you don’t have to,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry for doing it that way, but I didn’t know how else to help you.”

“I’d like to stop,” Geoff says. “And it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. You did help.”

Michael moves forward, putting his elbows on his knees and peering at Geoff.

“You seriously don’t have questions about all _this?_ ” he asks, his eyebrows knit with concern.

Geoff shakes his head slowly. “I think I… I’ve known.”

Ryan and Michael share a look, and when Ryan looks back at Geoff, Ryan is grinning.

It sends a warm throb through his chest. It’s perverse, but Geoff wants nothing more than to be accepted by the two of them in that moment—not because he is afraid of the consequences of denying them but because he _loves them_ that deeply.

“I didn’t know the specifics,” Geoff says. “But I knew this is what you were doing.”

"With you, we could do _so_ much more," Michael says with something like wonder in his voice.

"Prey with a little more fight in them, right Michael?" Ryan’s voice is excited, pleased, proud. He doesn’t miss a beat. It’s too easy to get wrapped up in that enthusiasm, to give into the current of excitement.

"It’s not that we’re not confident in what we do, Geoff... It’s just that safety always comes first," Michael says. “Tonight proves that.”

Geoff nods. He knows the night had gone south because he’d shown up unannounced. He’s glad nobody had gotten seriously hurt.

 _Nobody who mattered,_ he thinks quickly, amending the statement.

"We love you, Geoff,” Ryan says seriously after a long pause. “You saw potential in us. And now we see it in you."

It made a strange kind of sense, Geoff realized. They’d always been special, different from everyone else. Maybe that had been what drew Geoff in more than the companionship, the undeniable chemistry he had with both men. This horrible, unique thing they had about them had exerted a unique gravity on him.

It had been inside of him all along, too. He knew that now as he reached out with a shaking hand to drag Ryan to him, to pull him into a kiss.

It had just taken their guidance to make it real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting a full YEAR for this update. I promise the epilogue and conclusion will not take another year. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please check out my gay romance books, written under the name Kay Simone and available exclusively on Amazon.com https://www.amazon.com/Kay-Simone/e/B01ENWV1PI/

**Author's Note:**

> [More multimedia fun here.](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/post/101693448787/geoff-is-comfortable-giving-michael-and-ryan-their)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Recipe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340543) by [mightbeanasshole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole)




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